


The Takeover

by giraffeter



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: F/M, Found Family, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, M/M, Mutual Pining, ceo!shitty, nonbinary!dex, startup AU, tech company AU, the team makes an app, zimbits - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-22
Updated: 2018-04-26
Packaged: 2019-03-22 15:15:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 52,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13766862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/giraffeter/pseuds/giraffeter
Summary: When Eric Bittle started his new job at a local tech startup, he wasn't expecting to find a home.When pro hockey player Jack Zimmermann agreed to a sponsored Instagram takeover for his favorite nutrition tracking app, he wasn't expecting their social media person to be quite so cute.When Shitty Knight founded a company, he wasn't expecting being his friends' boss would be this hard.(AU in which the gang all work together at a tech startup)





	1. Chapter 1

“Good morning, y’all! I was too excited to sleep, so I thought I’d get this week’s post out early. It’s a beautiful Monday morning and, for those of y’all who have been following this little saga, it is the first day of my  _ brand new job!” _

The image shows a skinny, freckled little blonde in his early 20s, turning a warm smile to the camera. “I am so excited to join the working world – fun as it has been spending time with all of you during my job search. What do y’all think,” he asks, gesturing to his mint-green button-down and royal blue tie. “Do I look the part of a Social Media Specialist? I swear, if I had known I could turn being on Twitter all day into a job I would have done it ages ago. Speaking of which, I want to give a special thanks to Sarah H. from Twitter, for the tip about hanging my shirt up to steam in the bathroom during my shower – my mama did  _ not  _ raise me to show up for my first day a wrinkled mess.

“I want to tell y’all something,” he continues, lowering his voice and leaning in conspiratorially. “I’m a little nervous about my first day. Fortunately, I still have some of the raspberry cream horns I made over the weekend to help fortify me for the day ahead! To make these, you’ll need to make sure your butter is nice and cold…”

After he finishes relating the recipe and gives a signoff, Eric turns off the camera with a sigh. He’d never admit it to his devoted followers, but his stomach’s been doing flip-flops all weekend, and shoving a bunch of pastry, jam, and cream into it didn’t seem like the best call. Instead, he grabs his messenger bag, and after one final, futile attempt to smooth down his cowlick in the mirror, heads out the door. He’s about to have a steady paycheck coming in – surely his coffers can stretch for a Mexican chocolate mocha at Diablo Coffee on his way to work.

When he arrives at the new, modern office building, gleaming with steel and glass, he takes a deep breath.  _ It’s OK not to know everything, Dicky, _ his mother had reassured him the night before.  _ They know it’s your first job out of school. _ He knows Suzanne is right, but he doesn’t like feeling out of control of the situation; he’d much prefer to sail in there, head held high, and land a double axel before anyone can make a comment about his size, his youth, his…well, anything else.  _ Probably not going to be a lot of figure skating at a tech startup, _ he thinks wryly. The elevator arrives at the 6th floor, and he squares his shoulders.  _ OK, Eric. You got this. _

The reception area is sparse and well-lit, with several pieces of gorgeous, abstract art lending color to the walls. A petite woman with a snub nose is sitting at the front desk, frowning at the computer in front of her; when he walks in, she glances up and the frown disappears smoothly into a welcoming smile _. _

“Hi, welcome!” she says. “How can I help you?”

“Oh, hi, I’m um – I’m Eric Bittle? I’m supposed to be starting work here today, as the, uh, social media…person?”

She bounces to her feet, and Eric can see that she’s even shorter than he is. “Oh of course! Eric! Welcome to SAMwell. I’m Ford. I know we spoke on the phone and emailed about your offer, but it’s so nice to meet you in person!” She extends her hand, and Eric leans awkwardly over the desk to shake it. “I have your New Hire paperwork here. Let me just get someone to cover the front desk, and I’ll take you on back.”

Before Eric can say a word, she’s back at the computer, typing furiously. “I’m just sending out a message on the team Slack to see if someone can come up. Since we deal with sensitive user information, you have to swipe a card to get in – we’ll get yours set up this morning – so somebody needs to be at the front desk in case we have a visitor.” She sits back in satisfaction. “OK, great, Holster should be out in a sec.”

“Miss Ford –“

“Oh please, just call me Ford, everyone does."

“Wh-“ Eric is about to ask a question, but before he can, the frosted-glass door to the rest of the office opens and out slouches what can only be described as a gigantic person. He’s gotta be 6’4” or 6’5”, with broad shoulders and and massive, powerful legs. Eric tries to suppress a squeak as he approaches; it takes a minute before he can even register that this giant man is also wearing a backwards cap, basketball shorts, and a tank top that says  _ Sun’s Out Guns Out. _ Eric’s feeling tinier and more overdressed by the moment, and getting a queasy down-the-rabbit-hole feeling that doesn’t mingle well with the spiced chocolate and coffee in his belly.

“Holster,” says Ford, “this is Eric Bittle. He’s starting today on Lardo’s team.”

“’Swawesome,” says the giant, blinking at him from under white-blonde eyelashes. “Welcome to the team, bro.” He reaches out for a handshake that somehow turns into a complicated series of bumps and snaps, giving Eric a laconic grin full of dazzling white teeth.

_ Oh shit, he’s also very cute, this is so not good, _ thinks Eric. “Thank you, it’s nice to meet you…uh?”

“Oh sorry,” Ford interjects. “This is Holster. Thanks for grabbing the desk, Holster,” she says over his shoulder, scanning her card and ushering Eric into the rest of the office.

“What does…uh…Holster…do at SAMwell?” Eric ventures, catching a glimpse of the giant putting his feet up on the reception desk as the door swings closed behind him.

Ford stops short and looks at him for a minute, surprised. “Oh, I thought Lardo covered our company history during the interview process! Holster is our co-founder and CFO.”

“Wait.  _ That guy _ is Adam Birkholtz?”

“Yep!” Ford beams.

“And he’s manning the front desk?”

“On occasion, everyone does! We all wear a lot of hats, we’re pretty lean and mean here. I’m the Office Manager, which means I’m responsible for keeping things running smoothly, ordering supplies, managing the space, answering phones, that sort of thing. I’m also Team Happiness Manager, so I organize team-building events, make sure the kitchen is well-stocked, and I’m also what passes for HR around here. We’re a small team,” she continues, her face suddenly growing serious, “but we take team happiness really seriously. If you have any kind of issue, don’t hesitate to bring it to me.”

Eric has barely heard the last few sentences out of her mouth. “Did you say…there’s a  _ kitchen?" _

“Yes there is! Here, let me give you a tour.” She starts walking again, and the short hallway opens up into a bright, open space, filled with desks in groups of two and three. The outer wall is entirely windows, flooding the space with natural light. There are TV monitors mounted here and there with various numbers on them, and posters and memorabilia from a hodgepodge of sports teams adorn the walls. Eric spots some gear from the local NHL team, but also stuff from an assortment of college athletics organizations, minor league baseball teams, and the U.S. Men’s Curling team, for some reason.

“This is where most of the team works,” Ford says. “Shitty has an office because we insisted he have one, and there’s a few conference rooms if people need space to meet, but everyone else works out here in the pit. Do you want to meet the rest of the team?”

Eric’s heart is going  _ kitchen kitchen kitchen _ but he says “Yeah, that would be great!”

“OK!” she says, but whirls suddenly to him, her eyes wide. “Oh I almost forgot! Lardo mentioned your preferred pronouns are he/him?”

“Yeah, that’s right.”

“OK awesome. We’ve told everyone as much, but if that changes, just let me know if you’d like my help communicating it to the team. I use she/her,” she continues, “and so does Lardo. Dex, on the dev team, who you’ll meet today, uses they/them, and everybody else is currently using he/him. If you don’t remember, it’s totally OK to ask someone what they use.”

“OK,” he says. “Thanks, Ford, that’s really helpful.”

She leads him over to a tall, lean, brown-skinned man who is busily wrapping a wireless mouse in tinfoil. “Ransom, this is – what are you doing?”

Ransom looks up, the sunlight gleaming off his bald head. “Holster’s at the desk, bro. I’ve got a limited window to foil as much of his shit as possible.”

Ford taps her foot. “Do we need to have another conversation about you and Holster using company supplies for prank wars?”

He grins proudly. “No way, man, I brought my own foil from home. This the new guy?”

Rolling her eyes, Ford turns to Eric. “Eric, this is Dr. Justin Oluransi, our project manager and sports medicine consultant, who went to  _ medical school," _ she says pointedly, “and should be  _ beyond _ prank wars by this point in his life.” Ransom grins and waggles his eyebrows at her, and she sighs and continues, “Ransom, this is Eric Bittle.”

“Bro,” says Ransom, pulling him into another bewildering, complicated handshake. “Welcome to the team! I know Lardo is psyched to have you come on.”

“Thank you, I’m happy to be here,” Eric replies, eyeing Ransom’s polo and shorts and wondering if he could surreptitiously remove his tie before he meets anyone else.

That overdressed feeling only worsens as he meets the dev team, a surly redhead  _ (great, more freckles!) _ and a very enthusiastic Asian guy with braces, both of whom are wearing cargo shorts.

“…And here is your desk!” Ford says brightly. “The Growth team all sit over here. I’m not sure where Lardo is…”

“She went to grab coffee,” says the guy at the desk kitty-corner from Eric’s, and Eric notes that this guy, at least, is wearing khakis and a button-down, making him the second best-dressed person in the office (after Eric) by a lot. “She should be right back.”

“This is Derek Nurse,” says Ford, flushing a little. “He’s our Business Development Specialist.”

“Nursey,” the guy says by way of introduction, shaking Eric’s hand. “Just kicking ass and literally taking names, that’s how we do on the Growth team.” His green eyes are a striking contrast to his dusky skin, and Eric is literally going to  _ die _ working around all of these hot guys, are y’all joking here?

“Dex already has your computer set up, although you’ll need to update your passwords to everything once you get in there. Oh, here’s Lardo,” Ford says, and Eric is relieved to see someone he actually recognizes – the woman who hired him, Larissa, walking over with a giant mug of coffee.

“Eric!” she says, giving him a wave. “Happy first day!”

“Thanks, Larissa, I’m so excited to start.”

“Now that you work here you’re gonna have to start calling me Lardo,” she says. “You may have noticed that we’re a pretty nickname-heavy group.”

“Y’know, I did receive that distinct impression.”

“No worries about not having one yet, it will come naturally to you in time. You can’t force it.” She turns to Ford. “You introduce him to the team already?”

“Most of them,” she replies. “I was about to show him the kitchen, and then Shitty wants to meet him at some point today.”

Eric can’t believe he almost forgot about the kitchen, and his heart skips a beat.

“I can take him around, if you want to get back to the front desk,” says Lardo.

“That would be great, if you don’t mind. Holster’s up there right now, and he always makes all my paper clips into little sculptures.”

Lardo smiles, shaking her head. “It’s not his fault you don’t understand his art.”

“No, but it is his fault I never have any paper clips,” Ford retorts. “OK Eric, this is where I leave you! I’ve got some other paperwork for you to complete, and some stuff like the Employee Handbook for you to read, but that can happen any time today – just stop by the front desk when you get a chance. Good luck! Have fun!”

“So, the kitchen?” Eric ventures.

“Yes!” says Lardo. “To the kitchen!”

“I will also come to the kitchen,” says Nursey solemnly, taking his feet down off his desk, “for I am in need of Cheez-Its.”

The kitchen is a lot like the rest of the office – bright, cheery, cluttered. There’s a ping-pong table off to one side, two big fridges, a kegerator, a couple microwaves, shelves stuffed with snack foods, but only one thing Eric really cares about: a gleaming, pristine range with a full-size oven. He runs his palm over the top, caressing it like a favorite pet. “You have an oven,” he breathes.

“Most people are more psyched about the kegerator, or the ping-pong table,” says Nursey, tearing into a bag of Cheez-Its. “But yeah, we have an oven.”

Lardo regards the oven with a doubtful eye. “I don’t know if anyone’s ever even used it.”

“Could I use it?” Eric asks, trying to keep his voice light and casual, totally normal question, no big deal.

“Oh yeah, you have that baking blog, I forgot about that! Sure, you can use it, nobody will mind.”

“Baking?” The guy with braces – can his name be Chowder? Is that right? – bounces into the room, snagging a Red Bull from the fridge. “Could you like, bake some stuff for us?”

Lardo and Nursey both turn to him with hopeful looks in their eyes.

“Honey,” says Eric, feeling at home for the first time that day. “Just try and stop me.”

~*~

_ EricBittle has joined #general _

**Ford:** Welcome to team Slack, Eric! This is our channel for general work talk. You’ll probably also want to join #growth, that’s your team’s channel, and #news, where we post links from the sports and tech worlds. Our channel for non-work chat is #chirps, if you want to get to know us all better!

**Holster:** YESSSS

JOIN US IN #CHIRPS

_ EricBittle has joined #chirps _

**Ransom:** Brooooooo

**Lardo:** ONE OF US. ONE OF US.

**Ransom:** /giphy one of us

**Chowder:** :wave: Welcome Eric!

**Holster:** My team. We have an important task ahead of us. The new guy must be nicknamed.

**Nursey:** Be nice to him he makes pie

**Holster:** I’m nice to everyone, I am a paragon of niceness, nobody is nicer than me

**Ransom:** :vomit:

**Holster:** STFU Ransom

**Ransom:** I say we call him Bitty

**Holster:** Because he’s so itty bitty?

**Ransom:** Because his name is Bittle asshole

**EricBittle:** I am a normal-sized person!

**Nursey:** Sure you are Bitty

**Lardo:** You tell ‘em Bitty

_ EricBittle is typing _

_ several people are typing _

**Bitty:** Fine.

_ This is the very beginning of your direct message history with Lardo. _

**Lardo:** If you don’t like going by Bitty, let me know, we can totally change it. Nobody wants to call you anything that you hate or is going to make you uncomfortable. Nursey tried to call Dex “Red” but they hated it so we had to keep trying to find their One True Nickname

we eventually settled on Dex

Obviously

and you don’t have to have a nickname if you don’t want one, Eric is a perfectly cromulent name

**Bitty:** Haha thanks, Bitty is fine though! I’ve never really had a nickname outside of like my immediate family

**Lardo:** How is your first day so far?

**Bitty:** Pretty good, I think! Everyone’s been really nice.

**Lardo:** I know we have kind of a frat house vibe, but it really is a good group of people. We all really want you to feel welcome here. If you need anything, or have any concerns, I want to know about it, OK?

**Bitty:** OK, thanks Lardo :smile:

~*~

Toward the end of the day, Bitty knocks on the door marked “Fearless Leader.” He walks in to see a lanky guy with shaggy brown hair and a thick, bushy moustache, busily spinning around in his office chair.

“Mr. Knight?” Bitty says hesitantly.

The guy uses his spin momentum to launch himself out of the chair, beaming, and offers his hand. “Shitty, to my friends and colleagues! Bitty, you magnificent social butterfly, please enter my lair.”

Bitty sits nervously on the edge of a chair opposite the desk. “It seems…inappropriate to call my boss Shitty.”

Shitty waves a hand, collapsing back into his office chair. “I’m not your boss, Lardo is.”

“But you’re her boss.”

“The entire concept of a ‘boss’ is a construct of the capitalist system,” Shitty says. “But we’re here to talk about you! Lardo says you were a student athlete.”

“I was, I figure skated all through high school and college, even went to nationals a couple times.”

“Figure skating! I was more of a hockey man, myself. You know, student athletics is the whole reason SAMwell exists.”

“I know,” says Bitty, pleased to demonstrate he’s done his homework. “You and, er, Holster played hockey together in college?”

“And Ransom, yeah! Those,” Shitty says mournfully, wiping away a fake tear, “were the halcyon days of youth. Anyway, you’ve met Holster, right?”

“Um, yes, yes I did, this morning.”

Shitty sits forward in his chair. “Can you imagine how many calories a hunk of corn-fed American man-meat like Holster needs to eat at the peak of hockey season?”

Bitty thinks about Holster’s gigantic thighs and tries not to blush. “Oh my goodness, a lot, I’m sure.”

“Exactly. The training staff wanted everyone to be tracking what they ate, and we were using this nutrition tracker app that, like, maxed out at 2000 calories a day, when Holster was eating more like 3000 just to maintain his weight, let alone get any gains. Then I hurt my ankle, and the exercise tracker didn’t have an option for my PT exercises, and kept sending me notifications for exercises I wasn’t supposed to do, and thus: The Sports and Athletic Medicine Wellness Tracker, or SAMwell, was born.

“A few years later, Holster blows out his knee in the AHL right as Ransom’s getting out of med school, I’m dying the death of a thousand cuts in law school, and Holster and I decide what the fuck, let’s pool our funds and make this an actual, like, thing.”

“It’s very inspiring,” Bitty says brightly.

“So, I’m the CEO, but I also have, like, no idea what I’m doing. I’ll be the first to tell you that. Every single person here is more qualified for their jobs than I am for mine. The thing is, Bitty,” Shitty says, looking suddenly forlorn, “I just want to build a company that’s the kind of place I want to work, where my friends can work there, too.”

“It certainly seems like everyone loves it here, Shitty,” and Bitty is surprised at how easily the vulgar nickname is rolling off his tongue, “and I really think I could love it here, too.”

“I hope so, my friend, I really do,” Shitty beams, shaking his hand again. “I’m really looking forward to having you on the team.”

~*~

“So, you getting a handle on our social accounts?” Lardo asks at the end of Bitty’s first week.

“Yeah, I think so! There’s actually a pretty good foundation there already, our follower counts are decent, we just need to start engaging with them more!”

“What have you got so far?” she asks, pulling her chair around to look at his screen.

“On Twitter, I’ve made a list of everyone I could find who’s playing for a college or a minor-league sports team, and then I’ve created a list of terms to look out for, basically watching for when they’re complaining about nutrition tracking or dealing with a fitness schedule, so we can engage with them then.”

“The individual athletes are nice,” Lardo interjects with a frown, “but the team-level subscriptions are what keep the lights on around here.”

“The problem,” Bitty continues, “is that team managers and athletic trainers aren’t who’s tweeting for the teams. Those people might have their own personal Twitter accounts, but the official team account is run by someone like – well, someone like me, a social media person, not someone who’s going to have the decision-making power for the whole organization. I think our best bet is to get individual athletes using the app, then incentivize them to take it to their organizations, get the whole team on it.”

“Got it,” says Lardo. “What else?”

“Oh! Well um,” stammers Bitty, who had honestly been expecting more pushback on his Twitter outreach plan, “I was thinking – we have these teams that use the app now, but I don’t know how many people even know that. I didn’t, until I applied to work here.”

“Yeah,” Lardo admits, “it’s been hard to get any of the teams to let us use their names to promote the app.”

Bitty turns to her with a twinkle in his eye. “Fortunately, we don’t need the entire teams. We just need some of the high-profile players to endorse the app. Their fees will probably be cheaper than the team’s, and they’ll be more willing to give us an endorsement. Of course, we’d still have to pay them…?”

Lardo is nodding. “We have some budget we could throw at that, depending on how much it ends up being.”

Bitty nods vigorously, emboldened. “I don’t know if you follow him on Insta or not, but Chris Pratt, you know, from Parks and Rec? I love him. He had these Instagram videos while he was filming Jurassic World called ‘What’s My Snack?’ that were all about the food he was allowed to eat while trying to stay in shape for the movie, and people just ate them  _ up. _ I think people like to see that kind of ‘slice of life’ stuff, you know? Get a glimpse into his day-to-day. I was thinking we could do something similar, do a series of Instagram takeovers where various athletes show us their diets and workout regimens for the week, along with screenshots of them tracking it in the app, get them to cross-promote it to their fans. We could do something similar on Snapchat,” he continues breathlessly, “once we build up a following there.”

“Swawesome. I’ll get you some names for people who work inside some of the teams we partner with. You make some phone calls, figure out how much this is going to run us in sponsorship dollars, and we’ll see if we can make it work.” Lardo holds out a fist for him to bump. “Nice work, Bitty.”

Just then, the sounds of a smooth easy-listening percussion beat start to drift out over the office. Bitty looks around, confused, but everyone else is exchanging knowing looks and starting to shut their computers down. The sound of the percussion builds, pauses for a moment – then, as the flugelhorn kicks in on what Bitty now realizes is “Feels So Good” by Chuck Mangione, Holster swings open the door of the kitchen, boombox on one shoulder, with Ransom close behind clutching a red Solo cup in each hand. “Beer night!” they yell in unison.

From across the office, Shitty’s door bangs open. “Beer night!” he yells in response.

“What in the world…” Bitty asks, turning to Lardo.

“It’s Friday, dude,” she replies with a wicked grin. “It’s beer night.”

Shitty comes up behind them and slings an arm around each of their shoulders. “Come along, my children,” he says, “beer night awaits.”

~*~

Two hours later, Bitty is standing a little unsteadily at Lardo’s shoulder. The two of them – really Lardo, with Bitty mostly lending moral support – have been holding their own at beer pong against all comers.

Dex, the redheaded developer (who has gotten noticeably less surly as beer night wears on), is lining up a shot. Shitty, their teammate, massages their shoulders. “You are one with the ball, Dex,” he says. “You are the ball, the ball is you,  _ be  _ the ball.  _ Be _ in the cup.”

Dex shakes Shitty off. “I got this, Shitty, I got this.” They line up the shot and serve, aiming for Bitty’s side of the table. Bitty squeaks and flails with his paddle, but the ball lands with a  _ plop _ directly in his cup.

“YES! CHUG it, new guy!” Dex yells, high-fiving Shitty.

“Oh, Lord,” Bitty murmurs, trying to ignore the bits of lint that have floated off the ball and into his beer as he drinks it down. “I’m sorry, Lardo.”

“There’s no need to apologize,” she says, fixing Dex and Shitty with a steely gaze. “I’m about to wreck these clowns.”

Three serves later, Dex and Shitty are drinking their losers’ beers. “Who’s next?” Lardo asks. “Nurse? Don’t be intimidated just because I’m technically your boss.”

“Trust me, Lardo, that is not what I find intimidating about you,” Nursey laughs, raking a hand through his curls. He’s unbuttoned the top button of his shirt; Bitty finds his eyes lingering on the exposed skin of his collarbone for a second too long, and realizes he needs to leave before he drinks any more and starts embarrassing himself.

“This has been really fun, y’all,” he begins, but is drowned out by a loud chorus of boos.

Holster claps him on the back with a hand the size of a dinner plate. “You can’t leave  _ now _ , Bitty, you’ll miss our post-beer-night beers!”

“And our post-post-beer-night-beers beers,” adds Ransom.

“Maybe next time,” Bitty says. “I’ve gotta get up early tomorrow so I can get ingredients for the pies I’m gonna make y’all next week.”

“But –“

“Let the man leave, Holster!” calls Lardo. “Pies.”

~*~

“Hey, everybody,” Bitty says to the camera. “Thanks everyone for your kind wishes on my new job! I can’t believe it’s been two months already, there’s still so much to learn. This week is especially exciting, because we’re going to have some real professional athletes in the office!

“The team is super psyched, oh my goodness, I thought they were going to faint when I told them who was coming. I can’t let the cat out of the bag yet, but let’s just say my fellow Rhode Islanders are going to be stoked when they see the videos!

“Of course, just because it’s video week doesn’t mean I’m not baking up a storm! This week, I made my Aunt Judy’s pecan pie to take in to the office. I use a shortening-based crust for this one...”

~*~

When Bitty gets to work, Chowder is waiting for the elevator, wearing his usual San Jose Sharks jersey. “Hey, Bitty! Are you excited for the big day?” Chowder clearly is, from the way he’s bouncing on his toes. “Do you think it’s OK that I wore a Sharks jersey? I thought about wearing a Falconers jersey, but that seemed, I don’t know, like…”

“Like wearing the band’s t-shirt to see the band in concert?” suggests Bitty.

Chowder’s grin falters. “Are you not supposed to do that?”  

Upstairs, the office is already a whirlwind of activity. Ford is busy cleaning her desk, even though it’s already the least cluttered surface in the office. “I just want to make a good impression!”

Bitty drops his pie off in the kitchen (“Hands off of that until at least after lunch, Dex, the way you eat, I swear”) and stops by the smallest conference room, which he and Lardo spent the previous Friday turning into a makeshift studio. She’s in there now, putting on some finishing touches.

“This looks great, Lardo! It feels like a real TV studio!”

“Thanks! I hope the lighting is set up OK, I think we should do some test shots once he gets here.”

“Don’t let her fool you,” says Shitty, who has come to lean in the doorway. “Lardo has the best eye for light of anyone I’ve ever met. If there’s a beautiful angle to be found, she’s going to find it.”

Bitty expects Lardo to laugh that off with some snarky retort, but she doesn’t; she just ducks her head a little bit, smiles, and keeps on working. He looks back at Shitty and sees something soft and open in his face, just for a minute, and then it’s gone.

“Well,” Shitty says, straightening suddenly, “and there should be plenty of beautiful angles to be found on our special guest,  _ Jack fucking Zimmermann." _

“Jack Zimmermann!” exclaims Ransom from the hallway. “Jack Laurent Zimmermann is coming here, to my work, where I work.”

_ "Do _ you?” asks Lardo pointedly. “Because right now you’re standing around in the hall.”

“I can’t believe he’s really coming here,” Ransom continues, ignoring her. “The guy is practically hockey royalty, Bad Bob Zimmermann won the Stanley Cup how many times? And now Jack is like, the youngest captain in the NHL?”

“He is an absolute fucking beast on the ice,” Holster chimes in as he comes to lean on Ransom’s shoulder. “I’ve seen his press conferences, though. The guy’s a robot.”

“Bro, if you find out he actually is, like, a cyborg, you have to tell us,” Ransom says, his eyes huge.

“We’ll get Bitty to ply him with pie, get him all hopped up on sugar, that’ll loosen him up,” says Shitty, ruffling Bitty’s hair.

“Shitty Knight, you did  _ not _ just mess my hair up right before I’m supposed to be making  _ videos _ all day!” Bitty cries, rushing to the bathroom to assess the damage, the sound of laughter following him down the hall.

By 1:00, everyone has finally settled down and is doing some semblance of work, although Bitty knows that the team Slack is just a Jack Zimmermann fanfest right now. He’s waiting out in the reception area, trying not to vibrate out of his shoes with nervousness.

_ He’s just a hockey player, he’s not Beyoncé, _ Bitty reminds himself.  _ Come on, Eric, this is what you do, this is your thing. As Queen Bey would say, a winner don’t quit on herself. When he walks in, you just say “Hi, Mr. Zimmermann, I’m Eric Bittle” like he’s any other person. Hi Mr. Zimmermann, I’m Eric Bittle. Hi Mr. Zimmermann, I’m Eric Bittle. _

He’s still not expecting what walks out of the elevator.

He’s seen Jack on TV, of course, and has been researching him leading up to the social media takeover (there was one  _ Men’s Health _ spread Bitty’s paid particularly close attention to). He knows Jack’s a good-looking guy. But somehow the cameras haven’t done Jack Zimmermann justice at all. Bitty knew his eyes were blue, but he didn’t know they were such a pure crystal blue, and on TV there’s no way to tell that those eyes are kind and a little bit sad. He knew Jack had high cheekbones and a square jaw, but he hadn’t realized those cheekbones were sharp enough to cut the ice on their own, that Jack’s dark hair would fall over his forehead to brush against them in a way that would make Bitty’s fingers itch to push it back.

Bitty stands there flummoxed, his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth.

He says, “gluh.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks everyone for reading my ridiculous startup AU! This story is looking like it will be 10-ish chapters, and I'm hoping to post around a chapter a week. Thanks to the incomparable Laurens for beta-ing.
> 
> Coming soon in Chapter 2: The Difficulties of Interviewing a Hockey Robot; Bromance in the Moonlight
> 
> I'd love to hear your thoughts in the comments, or come say hi on Tumblr: https://giraffeter.tumblr.com


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Standing there is a short young guy who’s staring at him with a face that’s about 50% big, chocolatey brown eyes. Eyes for days, eyes you could get lost in, which somehow doesn’t stop Jack from taking in his stylishly tousled strawberry-blonde hair, the dusting of golden freckles across his nose and cheeks, his plush pink lips.
> 
> He’s wearing jeans and a T-shirt, and Jack’s practiced eye can tell that while Blondie might be small, he’s subtly ripped, like a gymnast or a dancer. It’s as though someone opened Jack’s file, noticed he had a weakness for short, skinny blonde athletes, and just whipped one up for him, made to order.
> 
> “Gluh,” says Blondie, gaping at him, and Jack has to concur.

Jack fidgets a little as he stands in the elevator. He has no idea what to expect from this SAMwell gig, has never really paid much attention to social media, but his agent thinks it would be good to humanize him a bit, and George thinks it would be good brand exposure for the team, so here he is.

 _Just be yourself,_ George had said, _your actual self, not Hockey Robot. People want to see the real you!_

 _Sure,_ Jack thinks, _people want to see the real me, as long as the real me isn’t having a panic attack before a game, or taking too many anxiety pills, or dating a guy._ Jack knows the what “the real you” really means, has lived with it his whole life thanks to his famous parents. Still, maybe these videos will give SportsCenter some new material to work with other than years-old clips from the news coverage after his overdose. Maybe the default image of him can be one of him holding a kale smoothie, instead of a bottle of pills. That alone is worth the time this will take out of his schedule; the fact that they’re paying him is just icing on the cake.

 _So I’ll just go, answer their questions, try not to sound like a robot._ It’ll be just like the post-game presser, except for the whole “try not to sound like a robot” part.

He’s feeling good, feeling calm, until he steps off of the elevator. Standing there is a short young guy who’s staring at him with a face that’s about 50% big, chocolatey brown eyes. Eyes for days, eyes you could get lost in, which somehow doesn’t stop Jack from taking in his stylishly tousled strawberry-blonde hair, the dusting of golden freckles across his nose and cheeks, his plush pink lips.

He’s wearing jeans and a T-shirt, and Jack’s practiced eye can tell that while Blondie might be small, he’s subtly ripped, like a gymnast or a dancer. It’s as though someone opened Jack’s file, noticed he had a weakness for short, skinny blonde athletes, and just whipped one up for him, made to order.

“Gluh,” says Blondie, gaping at him, and Jack has to concur.

After a long moment spent just goggling at each other, Blondie blinks several times and seems to compose himself. “Mr. Zimmermann?” he says, extending a hand to shake. “I’m Eric Bittle.” He pauses for a second, then adds, “But everybody calls me Bitty.”

“Nice to meet you,” Jack replies in a daze, thinking _fuck,_ his accent is to die for. “Please, call me Jack.”

~*~

 _OMG, his accent is to die for,_ Bitty thinks, letting his hand be enveloped in Jack’s larger, calloused one. The hint of Quebecois makes the words soft in Jack’s mouth, like –

 _OK, get a grip, Bittle,_ he says to himself. _You are a professional._ Out loud, he says, “We’re all excited to have you here! Let’s head on back. Have you ever participated in an Instagram takeover before?”

“Um, no.” Jack’s eyes are roving nervously around the space, and Bitty can see the team sneaking surreptitious looks at them as they head toward the conference rooms.

“So, we’ll take a lot of pictures today, and shoot a whole bunch of video, some staged, some more candid. Then, on Monday, you’ll ‘take over’ our account - all day, all of the content will be pictures and videos of you, interacting with the app, talking about how you use it, some fun stuff around the office, that kind of thing. We’ll send you some stuff to post from your account, too - I can show you how to load it all into a scheduler, so you don’t have to spend all day on it. Then if you can just hop in periodically to respond to comments, we should be all set!”

“OK,” says Jack uncertainly, and Bitty makes a mental note to send him the full list of instructions later.

Half an hour later, they’re in SAMwell’s makeshift studio, and Lardo and Bitty are trying to coax some sign of life out of an increasingly wooden Jack.

“Just walk us through a typical day for you during the season,” Bitty encourages him, adjusting the camera slightly in its tripod. He’s got the team's official social media phone in his hand, and Instagrams a quick picture of Jack with the caption, “Here’s a sneak peek at our upcoming Instagram takeover, with @falconers captain @jlzimms! #zimmwell”

Jack hunches his shoulders, looking miserable. “I don’t know…I get up. I eat breakfast. I get some solo practice time in on the ice. The team gets there. We train. Skate. Stretch. Go home. Watch some tape. I go to bed.” He shrugs, and the gesture is somehow more eloquent than anything he’s said out loud so far. “Sorry. It’s boring.”

It’s a good thing Jack is being so exasperating right now, as it keeps Bitty from swooning at the way Jack says the word _boring,_ all blurred consonants and drawn-out vowels.

“Okaayyy…” Lardo says doubtfully, “Maybe let’s…expand on that? Like…what do you have for breakfast?”

“Usually a protein shake, or an egg white omelet. Something with a lot of protein and some dark green vegetables. Most people,” he straightens up a little, a spark of life coming into his eyes for the first time, “don’t get enough protein in their diet.”

“Really?” asks Bitty, desperately trying to draw him out further, although not sure what else there’s going to be to say about _protein._

“Oh yeah, especially at breakfast. Breakfast cereals are the biggest scam, they do nothing to properly prepare you for the day, that’s why so many people are tired – by lunchtime their bodies are trying to eat their own muscles for fuel.”

Bitty leans against the table and gives Jack a self-deprecating smile. “So if I had a cherry danish for breakfast this morning, that would be…”

“Not a good breakfast! Trust me, start eating protein at breakfast and it will change your whole day. I can tell just by looking at you that you don’t get enough protein.”

“ _Excuse you,_ Mister Zimmermann!” Bitty gasps with a shocked laugh. “I assure you, my protein levels are fine.”

“Sorry.” Jack flushes, then smiles shyly. “At least...make it a cheese danish?”

Lardo looks at her phone. “I need to run to a meeting. Bitty, are you good?”

“Totally,” says Bitty, smiling into Jack’s fathomless blue eyes. “So Jack, can you show us in the app how you’re tracking your intake of your best friend, protein?”

~*~

 **Ransom:** @Lardo what’s Zimmermann like  
We need the deets

 **Lardo:** in a meeting

 **Shitty:** yeah but it’s with me and I also want to know what Zimmermann is like

 **Lardo:** He doesn’t talk much  
He’s like weirdly into protein  
idk

 **Ford:** He’s taller than I thought he would be in real life!

 **Dex:** It looks like Bitty’s got him talking now

 **Ransom:** Are we sure Bitty isn’t doing all the talking? Boy can talk.

 **Holster:** RANSOM  
Do not disparage our smol adult son in the Slack

 **Shitty:** I have the utmost confidence in our young Bitty, he could coax words out of a lifeless husk

 **Lardo:** If you guys don’t mind I need to talk to Shitty about like business and numbers and stuff now

 **Shitty:** ugh 

~*~

Jack spends the whole afternoon at the SAMwell offices, and it’s weirdly fun? He wouldn’t have expected that hanging out in an office all day would be relaxing, but it is. He and Bitty talk about training and leadership and what it’s like to be the face of a franchise; they go down to the park at the corner for Jack to show him the calisthenics routine he’s perfected in hotel rooms while on the road, then back to the office to talk some more. Any time he starts to freeze up or feel awkward, Bitty changes the subject or chirps him gently and draws him back out, and after a while Jack kind of forgets about the camera.

“Is it intimidating, being captain at such a young age?” Bitty asks at one point. He’s sitting cross-legged on top of the table now, next to the camera.

“Mmm, yes and no. There’s a lot of pressure to do well, I really want to do the best I can by the team. I thought it would be weird for some of the older guys on the team, having their captain be a guy so much younger than them, but it hasn’t been, really – everybody gets that we need to work together to do well, and I think that comes across on the ice.”

He doesn’t add that it hasn’t come across off the ice – that a bunch of guys who are going home to wives and kids every night don’t really have room in their lives to be friends with a 26-year-old single dude, especially not a Hockey Robot with intimidating parentage. He’s been lonely since moving to Providence, but then again, he’s usually lonely. This is probably the longest conversation he’s had with anyone besides his mother in over a year.

The melancholy turn his thoughts have taken must be coming through in his expression, because Bitty quickly changes the subject. “I have to say, I feel a little starstruck meeting you. Ever since I was a little kid, I’ve been a huge fan of…”

 _Your dad,_ Jack mentally finishes the sentence. He gets ready for the inevitable hockey fan ‘What’s it like being Bad Bob’s son?’ conversation, the rehashing of Bob’s four Stanley Cup wins, recitations of his highlights. It’s a boring conversation, but one Jack’s more than used to having.

Bitty surprises him, though, by saying “…your mom!”

“My mom?”

“Oh yeah, are you kidding me? Alicia Zimmermann in _Blades of Desire_? It’s like, a figure skating camp staple, I must have seen that movie a hundred times.”

Jack chuckles. “I’ll be sure to tell her that, that will make her day.”

“Oh my God really? I can’t believe that someone’s gonna talk to Alicia Zimmermann about me, that is just…gosh.” Bitty smiles, big and open and genuine.

“So, you’re a figure skater?” Jack asks, trying not to check out Bitty’s body again.

“I was, all through school and in college. But,” Bitty shrugs, but his smile is a little wistful. “Turns out figure skating’s not a great way to pay the bills. So, here I am.”

“Solo, or partners?”

“Um, mostly solo. I’m a little small for some of the lifts in partners skating, although with the right partner it worked pretty well.”

“Small can be…” _Careful, Jack,_ he cautions himself. _Don’t make it weird._ “…can be good, though. I bet you’re really fast.”

Bitty flashes him a mischievous, sidelong grin. “Oh I am. I bet I’m even faster than you.”

Jack laughs in surprise. “Are you suggesting a race?”

“Oh my goodness, that would make the best video for SAMwell, just name the time and place.”

They sit there for a minute, just smiling at each other. Jack is feeling more content than he has in a long time. It’s almost not a surprise when music starts to play.

“Oh wow, is it 4 already? I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to take up so much of your time,” Bitty exclaims, jumping up.

“It’s fine, I didn’t have anything going on anyway,” Jack assures him, getting to his feet. “I’ve really enjoyed talking to you.”

“Me too,” Bitty says, and his smile is _so cute,_ Jack feels it all the way down to his toes.

“Um…” Jack says after a long moment. “What is that music?”

Bitty grins. “Do you...want to come meet the team?”

~*~

There are some awkward smiles when Jack shows up at beer night, some selfies and some autographs and the requisite Bad Bob Career Highlights conversation, but once the beer starts flowing it’s like he’s been there the whole time.

Jack doesn’t drink much, but even on just half a beer it’s easier to talk to the SAMwell crew than it’s ever been, really, to talk to people he doesn’t know. He chats with Holster about the difference between juniors in Waterloo and the Q, then gets in an animated discussion with Ransom about his favorite parts of Toronto. When they throw their arms around him and start singing “O Canada,” swaying back and forth, he joins them in belting it out. He catches Bitty out of the corner of his eye, filming them with his phone; he considers saying something to him about it, but realizes he trusts Bitty not to post anything too incriminating or embarrassing.

“Did you get some of this pie?” Lardo asks him, holding out a gooey slice on a paper plate. 

“Oh, no thank you,” he replies quickly, trying to wave the plate away.

“It’s reallllllly good,” she says with a wolfish grin, waving the plate back and forth. “See, look, it’s dancing for you.”

“You should try some,” Chowder chimes in. “Bitty is like, the best baker, his YouTube channel has over 10,000 subscribers.”

Jack’s not sure what those two things have to do with each other, but if Bitty made the pie, he’s going to have to eat some - he feels like a giant loser for that being true, but there it is. “OK, but cut me a piece like a third that size.”

“You’re missing out, man,” Lardo says, but cuts him the smaller piece.

“Dude, did you miss the part where I’m a professional athlete? Between this and the beer, I don’t even want to know how many sit-ups I’m going to have to do tomorrow.”

“We can find out now,” Chowder says. “Just log it in the app and it will automatically - “

“Everything in that app goes straight to the team nutritionist and the coaching staff, no thanks. This is a strictly off-the-books beer night.”

Dex shoulders their way into the conversation. “So wait, you’re saying you don’t log stuff in the app when you don’t want your trainers to find out about it?”

“Not usually, but from time to time, yeah, I don’t feel like getting yelled at because I had mashed potatoes with my steak.”

“What if there were an option to log things privately, would you still want that data if it wasn’t shared? So you could figure out what you needed to work off on your own?”

“Oh, definitely.”

Dex and Chowder start talking over each other about permissions and user types and push notifications. Dex gets out their phone and starts taking notes, Chowder leaning over their shoulder to add or argue.

Jack turns back to Lardo. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to bring up work stuff.”

Lardo snorts. “Please, you just made their night.” She punches him lightly on the shoulder. “That suggestion probably just paid for you being here.”

 _Right._ He’s been enjoying himself so much, he almost forgot they were paying him to be here. No wonder he was still at beer night; nobody was going to throw their celebrity endorsement out on his ass, no matter what kind of nuisance he made of himself. Suddenly self-conscious, he takes a big bite of his pie. Of course it’s amazing, Jack doesn’t always love nuts in baked goods but this is dark and sweet and the crust is perfectly flaky. He scans the kitchen for Bitty, finds him deep in conversation with Holster.

“I just think the whole album is the exact right next step for her,” Holster is saying, waving his beer.

“Definitely, it’s so _mature,_ it really puts her on a whole other level from _My Everything._ ”

“Mature is one word for it, that whole album is about getting the D.”

“I just love,” Bitty drawls, his southern accent more pronounced after a couple beers, “that she is like, owning her sexuality on _Dangerous Woman._ She’s like, a little, teeny, person, you know? And I think sometimes, when you’re a teeny little person, people can forget that you’re, like, a sexual being…” he catches Jack looking at him as he says the words “sexual being” and goes bright red to the tips of his ears.

“Hey,” Jack says quietly, joining the conversation.

“Zimms!” Holster half-shouts, and Jack is absurdly pleased by the nickname, although he’d never admit it. “You like Ariana Grande?”

“I don’t...know if if I’ve ever heard her,” Jack admits.

Bitty’s eyes go huge. “ _What?_ That is _not allowed,_ what are you, a _cave person?_ Hang on,” he says, pulling out his phone, “I’m DMing you a Spotify link.”

Jack’s about to say _I’m gonna take off,_ is actually forming the words in the back of his throat. This has been really fun, but he needs to remember that these people are a team, a unit, and he’s just some guy crashing their party. Before he can speak, though, a hand claps him on the shoulder.

“Jack fucking Zimmermann!” booms Shitty. “I must say I’m impressed, not everybody does so well this far into their first beer night.”

“Nursey threw up at his first one,” Holster pipes up helpfully.

“I’m about to head up to the roof,” Shitty intones. “Want to come? There’s a hell of a view.”

~*~

Jack’s half-expecting Shitty to quietly show him out of the building with some comments about how he’s embarrassing himself, but instead they actually go up to the roof, which does have a pretty breathtaking view of downtown Providence. Shitty lights up a massive joint, which Jack politely declines.

“So...what’s it like having your own company?” Jack ventures, after a moment.

“Shit, I don’t fucking know, man. It’s weird. What’s it like being in the NHL?”

Jack shoves his hands in his pockets. “It’s weird.”

Shitty takes a long drag and exhales slowly, smoke curling around his head in the yellow streetlight. “It’s like...I had this money from my grandfather. Who was a _fucking asshole,_ by the way. And my dad - who is also, may I add, an asshole of mythic proportions - wanted me to invest it. And I thought, what would make me the most happy to do? And I picked this. Like, my dad is going to be disappointed in me no matter what I do or how well I do it, why not do it my way?”

Jack nods. “I get that.”

Shitty eyes him appraisingly. “Yeah, I bet you do.”

Jack stays up there for hours, talking to Shitty. Shitty tells him about feeling like a fraud, in law school and now as a CEO, “whatever that means;” talks to him about the tensions inherent in being your friends’ boss and his worries about the company failing and leaving everyone he cares about out of a job; treats him to a lengthy diatribe about capitalism and the classism and misogyny that run rampant in the tech scene. Jack tells him about growing up in Bad Bob’s shadow, playing on teams with guys who have worshiped his father their entire lives. He tells Shitty about the anxiety, the pills, the rehab, the wild speculation about him on SportsCenter every time he does anything. 

He does _not_ tell Shitty about Kent - closet doors don’t spring open that easy, even in the kind of soul-baring all-night conversation you can only have with someone you’ve just met. But he finds other things, things he thinks and feels and doesn’t usually say, floating comfortably out into the night. Shitty listens, like really listens, and says some things about his situation Jack wouldn’t have thought of. 

Jack’s phone buzzes in his pocket; it’s a Twitter DM from Bitty. _We’re heading out for post-beer-night beers. Thanks for coming to beer night, it was really great hanging out with you. I’ll be in touch next week about the videos!_ A perfectly nice, perfectly professional missive from someone he had a perfectly nice, perfectly professional interview with. That’s all.

Eventually, Jack needs to leave - he’s already had pie and beer today, the last thing he needs is to mess up his sleep schedule, too. Shitty pulls him in for a hug.

“Jack fucking Zimmermann, you are a magnificent specimen of humanity. You’re welcome at beer night any time, Fridays at 4. Mi beer night es tu beer night.”

“Yeah,” Jack snorts, “I’m sure you guys really want some random hockey player hanging around.”

“No, man, fuck that,” Shitty says pleasantly. “I don’t give a shit about that. Beer night is a sacred institution around here, and I wouldn’t ask you if you weren’t wanted. I mean it. Any time.”

Jack thinks about the people he met today, people who gleefully shout obscenities at each other, who spontaneously burst into song, who welcomed him into their enclave without a second thought. He thinks about pecan pie and big brown eyes and letting go, even for a couple hours, of the pressures of his life.

“OK,” he says. “Thanks, I’ll remember that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hooray for chapter 2! Thanks as always to Laurens for beta-ing, and for pointing out that not everyone knows what an Instagram takeover is (FWIW Bitty's explanation here is a pretty gross oversimplification of how it works, but hopefully you get the drift).
> 
> Thanks so much for your comments and kudos - they make me do the happiest of happy dances. I'm so glad y'all are having fun reading this, since it's being a BLAST to write.
> 
> Coming next week in Chapter 3: Adventures in Venture Capital; Let the Pining Begin


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bitty sets his paper pastry bag on the table. “You’re going to hate what I have in here.”
> 
> “I’m guessing it’s not an egg white omelet?” Jack says in mock reproof, inwardly breathing a sigh of relief.
> 
> “Not exactly.” Bitty replies with a mischievous gleam in his eye, holding out the bag so Jack can peer in.
> 
> “A chocolate chip muffin? Bitty, muffins are just cake! You’re just having chocolate cake for breakfast.”
> 
> “Why thank you, Mister Zimmermann, I do _indeed_ live my best life, thanks so much for noticing,” Bitty drawls.

_Hi Jack,_

No. Too familiar. This is a work email.

_Dear Mr. Zimmermann,_

OK, that feels wrong too, though. They were definitely on a first-name basis by the end of Jack’s visit, and Bitty can’t stand on too much ceremony with someone who’s tried Aunt Judy’s pecan pie.

_Dear Jack,_

_Thanks again for coming by the office on Friday! It was a pleasure getting to know you a bit, and hearing more about how you’re using the SAMwell app._

_I’ve attached the photos for your Instagram posts, and the captions we’d like included with them; just load them into the scheduler app the way I showed you, and you should be all set. Please remember to include the #zimmwell hashtag, and the #sponsored hashtag to avoid running afoul of the FTC. Let me know if you have any questions!_

_I’ll be tagging you in the posts from the @samwellapp account - if you could hop in from time to time and respond to some of the comments, we’d appreciate it, and I know our followers would love it._

_Best wishes,  
Eric Bittle_

_P.S. Everyone loved having you at beer night! You were a big hit with the whole team. Shitty asked me to remind you that you’re welcome any time, and I certainly echo that sentiment!_

There. Professional, but friendly. Bitty does not add “P.P.S. Let’s get married and have lots of sex and babies.” That would be inappropriate (plus Bitty doesn’t hit on straight boys if he can avoid it), but he is sorely tempted, because _damn._ He’s spent all weekend thinking about Jack’s muscular shoulders, his shy smile, his _perfect ass,_ Saint Rihanna preserve us.

He hits Send, then gets up to walk a lap around the office, trying to clear his head.

“What’s happening, Bitty?” Ransom asks as Bitty wanders past his desk. “Get the takeover all squared away?”

“Yeah,” says Bitty, trying not to sigh.

“Zimmermann was...surprisingly cool,” Ransom muses, leaning back in his chair. “I didn’t expect him to be so down to hang, y’know?”

“Me either,” Bitty replies, thinking _that’s one of many things I didn’t expect about him._

“Think fast, man!” Bitty jumps as Holster materializes right behind him and tosses Ransom a banana. He’s a big dude, but Holster can move like a cat; he’s constantly sneaking up on people without meaning to. He and Ransom break open their bananas, then toast each other with them. “Potassium!” Holster cheers.

“Potassium,” echoes Ransom. “My dude here used to get mad charley horses,” he explains to Bitty.

“Which is why I need a doctor on call.” Holster grins at Ransom, holding out a fist for him to bump. “Oh hey,” he says, turning to include Bitty, “I’m supposed to let everybody know, team meeting at 3, OK?”

“Back to work, then,” Bitty says, giving them both a smile before heading back to his desk.

Jack has already responded to his email! Bitty tries to suppress the little flutter his heart gives as he opens it.

_Got it. Thanks._

_JLZ_

That’s it. 

Bitty’s not sure what he expected, but he feels let down anyway. _He was just being nice, because he’s nice, it’s not like y’all are friends now, get a grip,_ he tells himself. _It was a business arrangement, and now that business is done._ He sets his chin in his hand, huffing out a sigh. _Got it,_ he thinks sourly. _Thanks._

~*~

“Hey guys,” Shitty says as everyone shuffles in to the largest meeting room. He’s pacing a bit nervously up at the front. Holster stands beside him; he’s wearing his glasses, and what Bitty’s come to think of as his Serious Business Face. “Thanks for taking the time to meet today.”

The team are all exchanging glances. Nobody has any idea what this meeting is for - according to team Slack, Holster didn’t even tell Ransom about whatever it is, which means Shitty must have asked him not to.

“So, Holster and I have been talking about the future of the app,” Shitty begins. “What features we want to add, where we want to be in the next few years, that kind of thing. And it’s looking like…” he twists his fingers together awkwardly. “With everything we want to do, it’s going to involve spending some money. We’ll need more server space, probably want to bring on some additional design resources, and we’ll definitely need to hire more developers, so Dex and Chowder don’t, like, die.” Chowder grins, but Dex just kind of nods, and Bitty is surprised by how tired Dex suddenly looks.

“Anyway,” Shitty says, “we’ve decided to start pursuing a round of venture capital funding. I have some contacts from Harvard in the space, and we’re just kind of going to see what’s out there.”

There’s a long pause. Finally, Shitty says “So...any questions?”

“Um, I thought we were profitable now,” says Nursey. “Why do we need more funding?”

“We _are_ profitable now,” Holster replies, “but it would take a long time, at our present run rate, to build up enough cash for what we’re looking to do, and in the meantime the market would outpace us. It’s kind of a ‘spend money to make money’ situation.”

“How can we help?” asks Bitty. 

Shitty smiles. “Bitty, you beautiful internet pixie, I’m so glad you asked. OK so really, what a VC firm is going to be looking at is growth. We’ll need to grow our revenue and overall user base substantially, as well as our daily active users and monthly active users, to demonstrate that SAMwell is a worthwhile investment.”

“So really it’s like a, ‘make money to spend money to make money’ type thing,” Chowder quips.

“Precisely,” Shitty laughs.

“Lardo and I have been running some numbers and have some thoughts on how we’re going to get there,” Holster says. “I’m not gonna lie to you guys, it’s gonna be a lot of work, but we think we can do it.”

“I’m all in,” says Ransom. “Just let me know what you need.”

“Same,” Dex and Nursey say at the same time, which makes Dex scowl for some reason. Chowder, Bitty, and Ford all nod their agreement. Lardo purses her lips, but doesn’t say anything.

“Thanks, you guys,” Shitty says, wearily scratching the back of his head. “It’s a great feeling, knowing that you all have our backs.”

~*~

Shitty watches the team file out, trying to settle the knot in his stomach. “Hey, Lardo,” he calls, “got a second?”

They head into his office, Lardo flopping down in the chair across from his desk. “What’s up?”

“Are you OK? You seemed kinda quiet in there.”

She gives a one-shouldered shrug, but he can tell from her face that she’s not happy. “I’m fine, it’s just gonna be a lot of work, is all.”

“You don’t think it’s a good idea.” He’s trying not to sound accusatory, but it stings a little to think that she doesn’t support him on this.

“Shitty, I don’t know if it’s a good idea or not,” she says, exasperated. “I don’t know anything about this. Do you? Are you sure you know what you’re getting us into, here?”

“I mean...no? I’m not sure? But it seems like the best way to grow the business.”

She shoots him a look from under her fall of dark hair. “And growing the business is what we want to do?”

Shitty rubs his eyes. “Yeah, I mean, I’d like to keep paying everyone, I’d like for this to keep being a thing, I’d like for it to be...more of a thing than it is now.”

“Okay.” She nods, her expression softening, then reaches out to put a hand on his arm. “Just...make sure you’re doing this because it’s what you want to do, not because it’s what you think you should do.”

God, she is so smart, she is so beautiful, she is so kind. He can’t stand to see the empathy in her eyes. He can’t stand the way he has to pretend her touch doesn’t totally _wreck_ him, that they’re just colleagues and old friends. He wills himself to relax, to smile at her. “Thanks, Lardo. Sometimes I just...can’t even, with this whole ‘business’ thing.”

She sits back, crossing her arms, and smirks at him. “Maybe you should have thought of that, before you started this whole ‘business’ thing.”

Shitty snorts. “You know,” he says, shaking his head at her, “not everybody calls me on my shit.”

“I know,” she smiles back. “That’s why you have me.”

~*~

“Hey everybody, thanks for tuning in this week! It is a _scorcher_ here in Providence, I hope y’all are staying cool where you are!

“It has just been nonstop lately. I’ve been coordinating a few more Instagram takeovers, and my team has been doing a ton of outreach. I even got to participate in some _sales_ calls, y’all, and let me tell you, it is harder than it looks! Nursey has been a great teacher, though, he can be a real smooth talker when he wants to be.

“We’re working on some new features for the app, that I think those of you who use it will really like! Everyone’s been working super hard, but I think the results will speak for themselves.

“It is so hot, I know I’ve been tempted to just not bake anything, just let you all eat ice cream like I’m sure you’re doing, but you know what doesn’t take long in the oven? _Cookies!_ I add granola and just a hint of cardamom to these…”

~*~

Jack steps tentatively into the coffee shop, glancing around at the dark wood and bright posters. A few spots ahead of him in line he spies, finally, a familiar blonde head. His stomach leaps, flips, sinks. 

_OK, now what?_ Would it be weird to call out to him? They don’t know each other that well, or hardly at all, no matter how natural it had felt to talk to him. Bitty’s just a great conversationalist; only someone as pitifully lonely as Jack could have mistaken that for a real connection. Bitty’s polite, distant, breezily professional email made it pretty clear where they stood. Nobody signs an email to someone they actually like ‘Best wishes.’ _Which means that going back through his Twitter feed, figuring out where his favorite coffee shop is, and going there hoping to run into him makes you pathetic at best, and possibly actively creepy,_ he admonishes himself.

He debates leaving, but more people have filtered in behind him in line; it would be weird to walk out now. He stares at the back of Bitty’s head, unable to move, hoping that Bitty will look around and catch his eye, but no luck - Bitty is deeply engrossed in something on his phone.

Jack spends an agonizing few minutes staring straight ahead and asking himself _why are you like this_ as the line slowly moves forward. Bitty orders his coffee, gets his pastry, moves to the side; Jack feels a surge of hope that he’ll finally look around, but he’s tapping away at his screen and barely glances up as he waits for his drink. Finally, Jack is at the front of the line. The barista looks at him expectantly, and he realizes that he has no idea what to order.

“Um, just a regular coffee, I guess,” he mumbles, and is subjected to a battery of questions - what size? Which roast? Room for cream? - before he’s allowed to pay and exit the line. He’s sure Bitty will be gone by the time he turns around, but wonder of wonders, he’s still waiting for his coffee.

Jack takes a deep breath, wants to die, considers fleeing, squares his shoulders, and walks over to him. “Hi.”

Bitty looks up from his phone, startled. When he sees Jack, his whole face lights up. “Jack! Well, my goodness, this is a surprise! Fancy running into you here!” 

“Just...getting coffee,” Jack says, gesturing with his cup, feeling foolish.

“Me too, this is -”

“ERIC!” the barista yells.

“Let me just grab that,” Bitty says, flushing. He snags the drink and turns back to Jack. “Anyway, I was about to say, this is one of my favorite spots, I come here all the time.”

“I was. Um. Just going to grab a table, do you...want to join me? If you have time, I mean, I’m sure you need to get to work - “

Bitty treats him to another electric smile. “No, I have time, I’d love to!”

They snag a table near the door. Jack realizes that he’s been so focused on engineering this run-in, he’s forgotten to think about what he’d say to Bitty once it happened. He’s quietly starting to panic, hoping Bitty’s natural gregariousness will provide an opening.

Bitty sets his paper pastry bag on the table. “You’re going to hate what I have in here.”

“I’m guessing it’s not an egg white omelet?” Jack says in mock reproof, inwardly breathing a sigh of relief.

“Not exactly.” Bitty replies with a mischievous gleam in his eye, holding out the bag so Jack can peer in.

“A chocolate chip muffin? Bitty, muffins are just cake! You’re just having chocolate cake for breakfast.”

“Why thank you, Mister Zimmermann, I do _indeed_ live my best life, thanks so much for noticing,” Bitty drawls.

Jack laughs at him. “I’m telling you, protein. It will change your life.”

Holding eye contact, Bitty defiantly takes a big bite of his muffin. Jack is momentarily transfixed by the thought of leaning across the table to lick the chocolate from Bitty’s lower lip; instead, he takes a big slug of his coffee. “So...it seemed like the Instagram thing went well.”

Bitty nods, chewing rapidly. “Yeah it did, thanks again for doing that! We gained a ton of new followers, and it’s given Nursey a good conversation starter with some other hockey teams, which is even better.”

“I saw you guys have been doing the same kind of thing with a few other athletes? The guy from the Gwinett Stripers did a nice job.”

“He was _so_ nice, it was great he could come by the office while they were out here.” Bitty sips his drink, looking away, then glances shyly back up at Jack through his long eyelashes. “You’re definitely still everybody’s favorite, though.”

“I am? I feel like I was so - I don’t know.” Jack is amazed, all over again, at how easily Bitty draws him out.

“You took a little while to warm up on camera,” Bitty chuckles, “but after that you were great.”

“Really?”

“Definitely. Nobody else has even been invited to beer night, let alone closed the place down with us, if that tells you anything.”

“Well.” Jack is oddly moved by this. “I had a...really nice time. It’s been a while since I just hung out with anybody like that.”

“You should come again. I mean it, we’d love to have you.”

“Thanks. It just…” Jack shrugs. “Feels weird, rolling up to an office to hang out.”

“Come to post-beer-night beers, then! We usually go to Charlie’s, around the corner. I’m gonna warn you right now, though, it might get a little raucous this week - everyone seriously needs to blow off some steam.”

“I’ll see if I can make it.”

“I’ll tell you what,” Bitty says, leaning in conspiratorially. “You come to beer night this Friday, and I will have protein for breakfast every day between now and then. You can hear all about how it’s changing my life.”

Jack tries to suppress the big, goofy grin he feels breaking over his face, but can’t keep his lips from quirking upward. “OK, deal.”

~*~

 **Nursey:** Rolling in late with coffee, I love the confidence, it says “Yes I slept in but coffee’s more important than you jerks”

 **Ransom:** Total power move

 **Bitty:** Everyone shut up right now please, I have news

 **Lardo:** NEWS! Give us the news Bitty

 **Bitty:** Guess who I ran into at coffee?

 **Chowder:** Beyonce?

 **Bitty:** If I ran into Beyoncé Giselle Knowles-Carter at Diablo Coffee I would not be here right now, because I would die and then I would be dead

 **Dex:** Elvis? 

**Holster:** Larry Bird?

 **Ransom:** My grade 8 science teacher Mr. Winters?

 **Bitty:** You all suck at this

~*~

_You don't gotta go to work, work, work, work, work, work, work…_

Bitty’s headphones are blaring away as he frowns intently at the spreadsheet in front of him. He’s pulling together numbers from their most recent social campaigns, comparing reach, engagement, conversions and revenue to get an idea of where they should focus their next efforts.

_Let my body do the work, work, work, work, work, work, work…_

Gradually, he becomes aware that someone is staring in his direction. He looks around and sees Dex glaring at him, their hazel eyes burning with intensity, a pen clutched tightly in their white-knuckled fist. Bitty takes off his headphones and gives Dex a quizzical look, but then realizes they’re not looking at him at all. Heart sinking, Bitty turns his head to see Nursey, his feet up on his desk, headset on, chatting away on a sales call, completely oblivious to the gathering storm in Dex’s face.

Bitty makes eye contact with Chowder, who’s watching Dex and Nursey with an air of dread and resignation. Chowder shakes his head slightly at Bitty: _don’t get involved._

Dex stalks over to Nursey’s desk, their face milk-white, every freckle standing out like a tattoo. They loom over Nurse until he finally notices them standing there; with a start, he takes his feet down off the desk. “Hey, Nick, I - I’ve gotta run, I have a - a - hard stop at 2,” he stammers, eyeing Dex warily. “I’ll give you a call next week about pricing, OK? Cool. Take care, man.” He takes off his headset. “What, Dex?”

“YOU -” they begin, almost shouting. They pause, take a deep breath, and continue in a lower voice. “You have. To stop. Promising them features. _We haven’t fucking built yet,_ ” they growl.

“Dex. Chiiiillll,” says Nursey, holding his hands up in a manner Bitty’s sure is intended to be placating, but Bitty knows Dex finds infuriating. “I know you guys are working hard on the new features. It’s only a matter of time, right?” he says, casting a wink at Chowder, who drops his eyes.

“Oh sure,” Dex snaps, their voice rising, “of course, it’s all so simple! Guess what, _Derek,_ I know everything’s super easy for you, so maybe you don’t get how much we’re BUSTING OUR ASSES -”

“Whoa whoa whoa,” Nursey says, springing to his feet. “First of all? You don’t know the first thing about what it’s like to be me, so don’t pull that shit. Second of all, you think I don’t work hard? In case you hadn’t noticed, we’re supposed to double our revenue, and I’m the only person here who actually SELLS anything - ”

“Oh yeah, you look real hard at work over here, kicked back on the phone - “

“Oh my God, FUCK you, you think it’s so easy, why don’t you -”

“Dex.” Ransom is there behind them, his calm, quiet voice cutting through Dex's and Nursey’s shouts like a knife through butter. He puts a hand on Dex’s shoulder.

“Rans - “ Dex says, their voice pleading.

“I know,” Ransom says gently. “Come on, let’s talk about it.” He leads Dex to the nearest conference room, and Bitty can hear Dex starting to complain to him as they walk.

Nursey sinks back into his chair. “Fuck,” he breathes, “what crawled up their ass?”

Bitty turns back to his spreadsheet with a frown. 

Chowder sighs. “They shouldn’t have yelled at you, Nursey. I know you’re just trying your best, out here. But…” he stares down at his hands, toying with one of the little figurines he has all over his desk. “It is...a lot of pressure, trying to keep up with our features queue, when clients have expectations about when stuff is going to be ready. Been a lot of late nights and weekends, for us, lately.”

Nursey swipes a hand across his mouth, exhaling heavily, deflating a little in his chair. “Yeah. I get that, man. I’m sorry. I’m just...when it’s the difference between making the sale and not making the sale, I want to make the sale, you know?”

“I know,” Chowder murmurs. 

Lardo walks over, her phone in her hand. Bitty’s pretty sure Ransom’s already Slacked her the whole story. “Hey.”

“Hey,” Nursey sighs, looking exhausted.

“You wanna go get some coffee?”

“Yeah. You guys want anything?” Nursey asks, and Bitty knows he’s trying to make up for disturbing the peace.

“No thanks,” says Chowder. “But Dex likes their brambleberry iced tea.”

Nursey grimaces. “Yeah. OK.”

~*~

Shitty’s phone buzzes insistently, and he eyes it with distaste. _Surely we can conduct business over email, like civilized people,_ he thinks, _surely we don’t need to talk on the phone._

The phone, oblivious to his displeasure, keeps buzzing, and with a groan, he picks it up. “Hello?”

“KNIGHT!” shouts an exuberant voice on the other end. “How the hell are you? Brad Mendelsohn, we had Contracts together?”

“Sure,” says Shitty, blinking rapidly. “Uh, hi...Brad.”

“Listen, Knight, I ran into Fujimoto last week and she said you’ve got a really sweet little tech company going down there, and mentioned you’re starting to think about raising some Series A funding.”

“Oh! Yeah, we are, that was nice of her to mention it.”

“I don’t know if you know this, but I’ve been with Barnstable Capital Partners here for a while now, and we’re really looking to diversify with a few tech companies in the next few years. The app market is so hot right now, you know?”

Shitty’s starting to sweat. “Totally.”

“Well if you’re interested, you and your business partner should come out to Boston and pitch us. I’d love to hear more about what you guys do and where you’re at.”

“That would be…” Shitty swallows, hard. “That would be great, Brad, thanks.”

“Sweet, dude. I’ll have my assistant shoot over some times. This month is totally slammed, but we could probably make sometime next month work.”

“Great, that will give us some time to get our pitch together.”

Brad barks out a laugh, although Shitty hadn’t meant to be funny. “HAR! I hear ya. All right man, I’ll shoot you an email. Take it sleazy!”

Shitty ends the call with fingers that feel oddly numb. _OK, well that’s far and away the best conversation I’ve ever had with_ that _d-bag._

 _This is great, right?_ He asks himself, trying to ignore the tingling sensation along his jaw, or the way the edges of his vision have gone a little pale. _This is exactly what we wanted, it’s really happening, oh my God I have to tell Holster, he’s gonna be so psyched._

He takes a deep breath. _This is great. This is great. This is great._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much everyone for your comments and kudos, they are giving me life!
> 
> Making up a name for a fake venture capital firm was more fun than I expected.
> 
> As always, thanks to Laurens for beta-ing, both for the thoughtful feedback on making sure I'm using inclusive language and being true to the characters, and for the hilarious color commentary (on Brad Mendelsohn: "I HATE HIM."). Thanks also to my bredfrens, for the encouragement and for the original "showing up late with coffee is a power move" convo.
> 
> Coming next week in Chapter 4: A Night of Beers; A Day of Movies; [pining intensifies]


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “How are things besides work? Are - are there any - “ he can hear her hesitation. “Any... _boys?_ That you like?” She’s trying, she really is, and he loves her for it.
> 
> “That’s nice of you to ask, but no, nobody special.” He’s not going to tell his mama _I have a giant crush on a famous athlete who is almost certainly straight, and it’s a daily struggle not to make a big ol’ fool of myself, and for some reason I’ve challenged him to a race._ It would be too hard to explain to her.

Charlie’s gets crowded on a Friday evening, but tonight they get lucky - a group is just leaving the big corner booth when the SAMwell team rolls up. 

“'Swawesome,” Chowder breathes as they slide in to the giant plush banquette. “Post-beer-night beers are on.”

“Speaking of beers,” Shitty says, snagging a couple of chairs to extend the booth’s seating options, “the first round is very very much on me.”

“I’ll help carry,” says Holster, and the two head toward the bar, Holster’s snapback bobbing above the crowd.

Bitty, squeezed in to one end of the booth, surveys his friends’ faces with pride. It’s been a rough week, busy and stressful and just _rough_ , but they’ve come through it as a team. Lardo is leaned back on one elbow, shooting the shit with Ransom, looking more at ease than he’s seen her in a while. Ford is talking a mile a minute to Chowder about the shows she’s going to take her parents to when they’re in town next week. Even Dex and Nursey appear to have put their conflict behind them for the time being, chatting amiably about their plans for the weekend. 

Shitty returns with a pitcher of beer in each hand, stacks of pint glasses tucked snugly under each arm. Holster’s following close behind, and a collective groan goes up from the table when they see what he has balanced precariously on a tray.

“SHOTS!” bellows Holster, grinning from ear to ear.

“Holster nooo,” wails Ford.

“Holster YES!” shouts Ransom, standing up to high-five him over Ford’s head.

“My team, it has been,” Shitty says, pouring beers and handing them around, “a hell of a week. You are all,” he continues, making eye contact with each of them in turn, “without a doubt, some of the best motherfuckers it has been my privilege to know.”

Holster is setting a shot in front of each person. Ford groans when he sets hers down in front of her. “You don’t have to drink that, I’ll drink it if you don’t want it,” he says in a stage whisper. She grimaces at him, but picks up the glass with an air of determination; Chowder, on the other hand, hands his shot right back over to Holster with a polite “No, thank you.”

“A toast!” Shitty cries, holding up his glass. “To the team. To paraphrase the Mountain Goats, we are gonna make it through this year, if it kills us.”

The team clinks glasses and knocks back their shots, shouting and cheering and chirping Holster about his choice of liquor (“Vanilla vodka, really Holster?” “What, everyone likes it, it’s delicious, don’t hate.”)

Bitty feels such a wave of affection for these people; he’s surprised at how quickly they’ve become his closest friends, some of the most important people in his life. He’s pretty sure that’s not how work is supposed to go, but it doesn’t matter - he’s here now, and he wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.

Twenty minutes later, he’s definitely sure he doesn’t want to be anywhere else, when 6-plus feet of long, lean NHL player walks through the door.

Bitty spots him right away. He watches Jack scan the crowd, an anxious-looking furrow between his brows. Fortunately, Ransom catches sight of him too. “ZIMMS!” he calls, waving, coming dangerously close to elbowing Lardo in the face.

Bitty’s heart is hammering wildly in his chest; he turns to animatedly join Dex and Nursey’s conversation, trying not to stare as Jack walks over. He’s wearing a black t-shirt that clings to his chest and biceps, and Lord knows most straight men can’t buy a good pair of jeans to save their life, but these are of a cut and wash that look expensive, and they. Well. They fit very nicely. Bitty may die.

“Jack fucking Zimmermann!” Shitty cries, standing to give Jack a hug (Shitty doesn’t do that one-hand-clasped-between-you handshake-hug that so many men do. When he hugs you, it’s a full-on bear hug, which Bitty kind of loves). “Sit down, my friend, and welcome to post-beer-night beers! You have missed the opening salvo of shots, but there’s beer a-plenty, and even,” he says, producing a clean pint glass with a flourish, “an extra glass, just for you.”

“Thanks,” says Jack, accepting the glass and nodding to the team. “Hey everybody.”

“Sit, sit!” Shitty exhorts him, motioning for everyone in the booth to scooch down.

Which is how Bitty finds himself crammed into a booth next to Jack, his thigh pressed flush against the length of Jack’s. He tries to ignore Jack’s solid warmth next to him, tries not to think about how Jack’s leg is like an actual fucking rock wearing jeans, and wonders if it is possible to blush so hard you pass out from a lack of blood flow to the brain. Dex’s bony hip is digging into him from the other side, but somehow that seems a lot less noticeable.

Jack’s blue eyes crinkle with a smile. “Hey,” he says quietly to Bitty.

“Hey,” Bitty says back, thinking be cool, be cool, be cool. “I’m glad you’re here.”

“So…?”

“So?” Bitty raises his eyebrows and tries not to stare at Jack’s mouth. Jack even smells good, like citrus and sandalwood. _Can’t he just wear too much cologne, or have terrible breath, or be a secret Republican, or_ something _?_ Bitty thinks despairingly, then realizes Jack is talking to him. 

“Your _breakfast_ ,” Jack is saying. “How has the protein experiment been going?”

“Oh! Um, I hard-boiled some eggs like you suggested, and I’ve been having a couple of those in the morning, with some fruit.”

“And? How have you been feeling during the day?”

Bitty sighs. “Like someone who desperately wants a croissant.”

Jack chuckles. “Stick with it, I promise, you’ll be amazed at how much more energy you have.” 

Shitty rests his elbows on the table across from Bitty. “I think your campaign to save Bitty’s breakfast may be a lost cause, Jack. You can take the boy out of the bakery, but you can’t take the baked goods away from the boy.”

Bitty sticks out his tongue at Shitty; Shitty just laughs, then turns to Jack and says, “I’ve been meaning to tell you, I’m reading Ron Chernow’s new biography of Ulysses S. Grant and it’s great, I think you’d really like it.”

Jack leans forward with interest. “Oh cool, I actually bought that like a month ago, but I haven’t started it yet.”

The two are soon deep in discussion of the shenanigans committed by America’s 18th president. Bitty’s surprised - he had no idea Shitty was talking to Jack regularly, let alone that he’d know what kind of _books_ Jack likes - but happy to see Jack fitting so seamlessly into the group. He turns back to his conversation with Dex and Nursey, trying to pretend he’s not hyper-aware of every shift of Jack’s body next to him.

~*~

An hour after Jack’s arrival, the group has contracted a bit - Dex has wandered off mumbling about needing some sleep, Chowder’s meeting his girlfriend for dinner - but Ransom’s just gotten another pitcher of beer, and the conversation’s showed no sign of slowing down. With the group thinning out, Jack no longer has Bitty plastered up against him, which is a shame, but at least now he can stretch his legs out under the table.

“All I’m saying,” Holster is pointing in Ransom’s face to make his point, “is that you can’t call it a true Harry Potter marathon unless you run the entire series.”

“And all _I_ am saying,” Ransom retorts, “is that the first two movies are bad and also not good, and kind of boring, and why would you ruin the first several _hours_ of your movie marathon watching some bad and not good movies?”

“The third one is great, though,” Nursey points out. “Alfonso Cuarón is a genius.”

“F’reals, it’s definitely the most, like, _film-y_ of any of them,” says Holster. “And Hermione in her pink sweater in that movie? She’s so adorable, that was like, one of my first crushes.”

“So we all agree that the third one is good, why not just start with the third one? We don’t need lame-ass Kenneth Branagh -”

“Kenneth Branagh is great,” Bitty interjects, “just not in _Chamber of Secrets.”_

Ransom waves a hand to concede his point. “We can start right in with number 3, get some Professor Remus Lupin going, get Sirius Black in the mix -”

“I’m fine with _doing_ that, Ransom,” Holster says with exaggerated patience, “I’m just saying we can’t then _call_ it a Harry Potter _marathon._ It becomes just, like, a day of watching _some_ of the Harry Potter movies.”

“That’s a semantic distinction,” Shitty says, “and I won’t be a party to your overly prescriptivist notions of language.”

The debate is interrupted by one of the bartenders stopping by the table, pint glass in hand. “Those girls over there wanted to buy you this,” he says, handing the beer to Jack and pointing to two young women at the end of the bar, who wave with the over-casual air of the deeply excited. Great, he’s been recognized. It’s been happening more frequently since he made captain, but he’s still not used to it, and as usual, has no idea how to respond.

“Oh, euh, thanks,” he says to the bartender, who’s already walking away. Cringing inwardly, he gives the women an awkward wave in return, and turns to face the incredulity of his new friends.

Lardo’s eyebrows are raised so high they look like they’re about to climb off her face. “Um, excuse me, what just happened?”

“I think our dear Jack has some admirers,” says Shitty. “How very _sweet._ ” Jack kicks him under the table, and he starts laughing. “No really, it’s _lovely.”_

“Free drinks from the pretty ladies,” says Holster, “now that’s a trick I’d like to learn.”

“You could start by being a famous hockey player,” chirps Nursey.

Jack rolls his eyes, but he notices that Holster’s smile is tight around the edges. Ransom puts his hand on Holster’s shoulder and rubs his thumb back and forth a couple times before letting go.

Lardo and Shitty exchange a look. “It probably doesn’t hurt that you’re a beautiful man, Jack,” Shitty says quickly. “I mean, look at this guy. You hockey dreamboat. You Canadian-Paul-Newman-looking motherfucker.” Jack covers his face with one hand, cheeks flaming. _Câlisse, kill me now,_ he thinks.

“My dude out here looking like an UnderArmour ad came to life and started walking around mumbling about protein,” Lardo says, getting into the spirit of the thing now. “Looking like a model fucked a Zamboni.”

 _Ha._ That’s especially funny, since he’s pretty sure Lardo knows who his dad is. “Actually,” he says, starting to smile in spite of himself, “that’s pretty much exactly what happened.”

The team explodes with laughter; they stomp their feet and give Jack a flurry of high-fives. In the confusion, Shitty snags Jack’s still-untouched beer and pours half of it into Lardo’s glass, keeping the rest for himself. He catches Jack’s eye and grins unapologetically.

Feeling pleased with himself, Jack leans back against the booth, stretching his arm along the back. It’s comfortable, and if it happens to bring him an inch or so closer to Bitty, who’s going to notice or care?

“So are you guys coming to this Harry Potter 'marathon' tomorrow or what?” Holster asks, making exaggerated air quote motions.

“Sure, what time?” Bitty says.

Holster, Ransom and Shitty look at each other. “I don’t know...come by the Haus like, noon?”

“OK, what can I bring?”

“Oh, you don’t need to bring anything,” Shitty says. Behind his back, Holster and Ransom are mouthing _pie, pie, pie_ and making puppy-dog eyes. Bitty winks at them and says “OK.”

Ransom elbows Nursey. “Nurse? You in?”

“I might stop by, it depends on what I’m doing.”

“That means no,” Ransom explains to the group. “Zimms?”

“I’d like to,” Jack says with real regret, “but I’m going up to Montreal tomorrow, gonna spend the week with my parents before the preseason starts.” Bob and Alicia wanted him to come for longer, would have been happy with him spending the whole off-season with them, but he doesn’t have many friends in Montreal anymore, and didn’t feel like spending his whole summer listening to Bob’s play-by-play analysis of Jack’s entire hockey season. He smiles at Bitty and can’t resist the opportunity to get a chirp in. “I’ll be sure to tell my mom you said hi.”

“Jack Zimmermann, do not even joke about that,” Bitty says, ignoring the wolf whistles from the team. “I would _die.”_

“I didn’t know you were such a...Jack’s mom?...Fan?” says Ford, looking puzzled.

“She’s only in one of the most important figure skating movies of _all time,”_ Bitty gushes. “When I was 13 I did my program at Regionals to ‘Don’t Leave Me This Way,’ just like she does in _Blades of Desire.”_

“I keep forgetting you had this, like, whole other life as a figure skater,” Nursey says.

“Apparently our young Bitty was quite the big figure skating deal, back in the day,” says Shitty.

“I believe it,” says Holster, “little dudes can pick up some serious speed on the ice.”

“When I came for the Instagram thing, he even tried to challenge me to a race,” Jack snorts, a moment before he even realizes the words are coming out of his mouth.

Bitty gives him a look of wide-eyed disbelief, a _you did NOT just say that_ glare that comes across as plain as if he’d said it aloud. Jack momentarily wishes he could sink into the ground.

Ransom and Holster look positively enchanted. “Brooooooo,” they say in unison.

“Obviously, you have to do it,” Lardo informs Bitty. “As your manager, I’m putting it on your performance review.”

Jack frantically tries to backpedal. “Well, I mean, obviously we don’t -”

“What’s the matter, Jack?” Bitty says, plastering on a confident smile. “Are you scared you’re gonna get beat?”

Jack raises an eyebrow. “Bitty, no offense, but I’m in the NHL.” _Marde,_ that sounded a lot less condescending in his head.

“And I’m a 3-time Southern Junior Regionals figure skating champion, so don’t you start with me,” Bitty retorts.

Jack’s eyebrow is still raised, but Bitty stares him down. Jack thinks about it - Bitty on skates, cheeks pink from the cold. He could go easy on the guy, make it a close race, although even with Bitty’s lighter weight Jack is pretty sure he can shut him down on the ice. It could be fun. “All right, Bittle. You’re on.”

Holster whips out his phone. “I need to clear my schedule, I gotta figure out some odds on this thing, come up with some side bets, get a book going.”

Ransom nods. “See, this is why you major in economics.”

“Where are we going to have this race?” Nursey asks.

“Oh that’s a good point,” Shitty says, “If we have it at the public rink there will be, like, little kids skating into your race.”

“Not to mention Jack losing to Bitty on the SportsCenter highlights,” Nursey adds, fist-bumping Bitty.

There’s a sobering thought. Jack really doesn’t want to race Bitty in public, where people would be sure to bust out their phones and start recording. With Jack’s luck, the TMZ headline would be “NHL Bully Humiliates Fan in Public Race.” 

“We could have it at the arena,” he says slowly. The table falls silent; Jack feels pinned to the wall by six astonished stares.

After a moment, very carefully, Holster ventures, “Are you - are you serious right now?”

“Sure,” he says. He’s not certain that he was serious, when he said it, but the more he thinks about it, the more he realizes it might work. “I mean, I have keys so I can practice, they won’t care as long as it’s before the preseason starts. Why don’t we do it the week after I get back from Montreal?”

“That. Is TOTALLY WICKED!” shrieks Lardo, perhaps unconsciously channeling the kid from the end of _The Incredibles._

Everyone starts talking at once, about the race, about getting to be on the ice at the arena. Jack feels absurdly gratified, to have made them this happy with an offhand suggestion. He catches Bitty sneaking a glance at him; something warm and bittersweet starts welling up inside him, and he has to look away.

~*~

“Anyway, a bunch of them live in a house together, and I’m going over there today to watch movies,” Bitty tells his mama on the phone the next day. “I’m bringing over a pie.”

“Oh, it was nice of them to invite you over!” Suzanne Bittle sounds warm and comforting. She sounds like home. “What kind of pie are you bringing?”

“Coconut cream,” Bitty says, peering in at the pie through the window in the oven door. “Something light, since it’s so hot out. I’m actually at work right now, baking it.”

“You’re sure they’re OK with you using the oven at the office to bake? Even on a Saturday?”

“They oughta be, since I’m baking a pie to bring to their house. I couldn’t bake it at my place, you know the A/C barely works and the heat makes the fat in the crust melt too fast.”

“Well, I’m so glad you’ve made such good friends at work,” Suzanne continues. “They all sound like good folks.”

Bitty twists the cord to his headphones around one finger, leaning against the counter. “They really are.”

“How are things besides work? Are - are there any - “ he can hear her hesitation. “Any... _boys?_ That you like?” She’s trying, she really is, and he loves her for it.

“That’s nice of you to ask, but no, nobody special.” He’s not going to tell his mama _I have a giant crush on a famous athlete who is almost certainly straight, and it’s a daily struggle not to make a big ol’ fool of myself, and for some reason I’ve challenged him to a race._ It would be too hard to explain to her.

“Well,” Suzanne is saying, “I’m sure you’ll meet someone nice, a sweet boy like you.”

He sighs. “Thanks, Mama.”

On the other end of the line, he hears the familiar sound of the screen door banging shut. It’s the sound of a hundred summer afternoons when he was growing up. In the background, he can hear his father calling, _Suzanne?_

“I should go,” Bitty says quickly.

“Oh, Dicky, you don’t have to -”

“No, it’s OK, my pie is about ready to come out. I’ll talk to you soon, OK? I love you.”

“ _I love you,”_ she says, her voice fierce.

“Bye, Mama.”

~*~

At noon, Bitty finds himself gingerly picking his way over a dilapidated porch, pie plate in hand. He’s already checked and double-checked; this is definitely the address Ransom texted him. He knocks timidly on the peeling front door. After a moment, Holster answers.

“Bit-TAY! Welcome to the Haus, bro. Is that pie?”

The interior of the Haus is only slightly less disheveled than the outside. There is a faint aroma of beer and socks and old pizza. Holster leads him into the living room, where Ransom is sprawled on a filthy old couch, reading a medical journal. Shitty is collapsed into a beanbag chair next to the couch; he’s wearing track pants and not much else. _House Hunters Renovation_ is playing on the TV (which is fairly nice, and fairly new, compared to everything else in the room) with the sound muted.

“Hey, Bitty!” says Shitty. “We just ordered some pizza. Welcome to Harry Potter Day!”

Bitty’s trying to figure out where to look; he wasn’t mentally prepared to be confronted with his boss’ (or fine, his boss’ boss’) hairy chest at noon on a Saturday. “Y’all are a bunch of grown men living in a frat house!” he blurts out.

“Yeah,” says Shitty, a little sheepishly. “It’s a shithole, but hey, we don’t pay rent.”

“What? How does that work?”

“Don’t worry about it,” Holster says, emerging with a fistful of forks (Bitty shudders at the glimpse he gets of the kitchen before the door swings shut). “What kind of pie we got going?”

One and a half movies, three pizzas, and most of a pie later, Bitty’s too full and drowsily content to think about the unhygienic nature of the couch he’s sitting on. Onscreen, Harry is worried about a date to the Winter Ball; Holster, Ransom, and Shitty are debating who they’d ask.

“Cho Chang is just the total package,” Ransom argues. “She’s smart, she’s beautiful, and she doesn’t put up with Harry’s shit, which is what he needs.”

“The same could be said for Hermione,” Holster points out.

“But Hermione’s like, his _homie,”_ Shitty says, struggling to his feet from the beanbag chair. “They don’t have that kind of relationship, they’re just good friends.”

“Yes, Shitty,” Holster’s tone is dripping with irony, “because nobody _ever_ falls deeply in love with a woman who’s their good friend, that _never_ happens.”

Shitty punches Holster in the shoulder on his way to the kitchen. “Shut up. Anyone want anything?”

“Beers,” chorus Holster and Ransom.

“I’d definitely ask Cedric Diggory,” Bitty says absently a few moments later. “He’s so cute in this, before he was in Twilight and his hair got all weird.”

There’s a moment of silence in the room, and Bitty sits upright when he realizes what he’s said. It occurs to him that for all of SAMwell’s outward commitment to diversity, respecting people’s pronouns, etc., he has no idea what Ransom and Holster really think about homosexuality, about having a real live gay person here in their extremely gross home. He mentally braces himself for the ‘No homo’ panic, and ventures, “You guys...you guys know that I’m gay, right?”

“We don’t like to assume things about people,” says Holster primly.

Ransom grins and nudges him with an elbow. “But it’s not exactly a surprise.”

“And that’s...OK?”

“Yeah!” Ransom glances at him, and must see something in his face. “Dude, of _course.”_ He wraps Bitty in a bear hug; he’s squeezed the life half out of Bitty by the time Holster tackles them both in a rib-cracking embrace.

“OUR SON,” Holster shouts. “Our tiny adult son.”

“Can’t...breathe…” Bitty wheezes, and is finally released from 400 pounds of dudebro affection.

Shitty returns with an armful of Bud Light. “What’s happening, what did I miss?”

Ransom and Holster look at Bitty expectantly. “Um...I’m...gay?” he ventures.

“Oh, right on,” says Shitty, flopping back into the beanbag chair with a _whumpf_ and starting the movie back up. “You know,” he muses, “I don’t know if anybody on the team is like, _entirely_ straight.”

Bitty glances at Holster and Ransom, but they’re both looking equally thoughtful. “Chowder, maybe,” Ransom says.

“Oh, yeah, I could see that.”

Before Bitty can process this information, let alone marshal his thoughts to ask a question, a nondescript dude with medium-brown hair wanders into the living room. He’s eating Cap’n Crunch in handfuls, straight out of the box.

“You guys still watching Harry Potter?” the guy asks.

The Haus residents mumble an assent without looking up from the TV. Bitty gives the guy a wave, twisted awkwardly on the couch to look at him. “Hi, I’m Bitty.”

“Oh, sorry,” says Shitty, “Bitty, this is Johnson, our other housemate. I didn’t realize you two hadn’t met each other before.”

“Oh, I think this is the perfect time for me to be introduced,” Johnson says, smiling as if at some private joke.

“Pull up some floor, man, Triwizard Tournament’s getting wrapped up,” Ransom says.

“No thanks,” says Johnson, “You don’t need me here for this part.” He wanders back upstairs, the sound of crunching following in his wake.

~*~

An hour into _Order of the Phoenix,_ Shitty’s ass has entirely fallen asleep. Maybe a beanbag chair wasn’t the best choice for a five-movie afternoon. He gets up, saying, “I’m gonna take a lap,” and roams around the house for a bit, stretching.

He was hoping that today could just be a lazy Saturday after a long week of work, but watching the movies, he’s getting more and more keyed up. He can’t stop thinking about the presentation for Brad, and watching Harry Potter struggle to save the day isn’t helping. _I don’t know why everyone expects Harry to fix everything, it’s too much pressure on the poor kid,_ he has no idea what he’s doing, he thinks peevishly, stalking toward the kitchen. He’s walking past the front door when it opens, almost knocking into him.

“Oh hey dude,” Lardo is standing there, her canvas work bag slung over one arm. She’s wearing a black tank top and shorts, and has a pencil behind one ear, holding back the non-shaved half of her hair. Shitty can see a fine sheen of sweat gleaming along her delicate collarbones, the soft shadows of her cleavage. It’s been a while since he’s seen her out of work clothes; this casual summertime Lardo is the girl he went to school with, the girl he spent countless hours talking and drinking and studying with, the girl he -

Shitty suddenly wishes he’d taken a shower this morning. Or put on a shirt. Or - _fuck my life,_ he thinks - brushed his teeth.

“How’s the movie marathon going?” she asks, brushing past him into the Haus. 

“Pretty well.” He trails her through the kitchen. “Ron and Lavender are macking all over Hogwarts, those dirtbag teens.”

“I don’t mean to interrupt you, I was just going to head to the garage.” 

He sticks his hands in his pockets. “Mind if I join you?”

The air in the garage is cool and still. It smells of paint and turpentine and linseed oil, like it has ever since Lardo took it over as her makeshift studio. Shitty takes a seat on a camp chair in the corner, well out of the way. There’s still a stubbed-out joint on the floor from the last time he sat here; he mentally tries to add up how much of the last few years he’s spent right here, in this chair, watching Lardo paint, but loses count almost immediately.

Lardo picks up a canvas from where it’s leaning against the wall and sets it on the easel. It’s not one Shitty’s seen before. “Is that new?”

“I started it a few weeks ago,” she murmurs, regarding the canvas with her head cocked to one side. 

Shitty takes it in, lets the painting wash over him the way he always does with Lardo’s work. It’s done entirely in shades of blue and gray. Contemplating the lone figure to the left of the painting, Shitty feels a lump unaccountably rising in his throat.

“What’s it about?” he says, not bothering to hide the emotion in his voice.

“Longing,” she says, mixing some colors on her palette.

He nods, even though she’s not looking at him, riding out the pause.

“I’ve been thinking about longing, lately,” she says after a few minutes pass. “Longing for the lives we didn’t have.”

“Who’s ‘we’ in this scenario?”

“You know,” she says, glancing at him over her shoulder. “A boy who wanted to be a hockey player. A boy who wanted to be a doctor. A girl who wanted to be an artist.” 

Shitty is trying, and failing, to control his face.

“Don’t get me wrong,” Lardo says, turning back to her painting. “I’m happy to have, like, a career, and working with you guys is so fun, most of the time. I sure as hell wasn’t going to pay my rent with these.” She gestures around at the canvases lining the walls. “I just…” she blows an errant strand of hair out of her eyes. “Sometimes think about that other life. What it would be like.”

“What would my other life be?” he asks, trying to turn it into a joke. “Don’t say I’m ‘a boy who wanted to be a lawyer,’ we both know that’s not true.”

She looks at him, and her dark eyes are full of compassion and affection. “No, Shitty,” she says, very quietly. “I don’t think you’ve ever known what you want to be.”

“Oh,” he says, his chest feeling tight. “Right.” This pause seems a lot less comfortable, and seems to stretch into eternity. “Well,” he finally says, standing awkwardly, “I’m gonna...get back to the movie.”

She nods, already turning away from him back to the painting. He leaves her standing there, a smudge of paint on her wrist, and goes back inside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm traveling for work, so y'all get this chapter a little early this week! Plus it means I get to post it on Pi Day, which is just...not icing on the cake...a fluffy meringue on the pie?
> 
> This chapter was a struggle to write! I think the rest of them are going to be smoother sailing, though. Thanks as always to Laurens for beta-ing.
> 
> Coming next week in Chapter Five: An Ice Race; A Very Short Road Trip; Meet the Falconers


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bitty’s so busy he’s barely had time to think about Jack at all. He’s proud of himself; clearly he’s getting his crush under control, and he and Jack can just be friendly acquaintances. Friendly acquaintances who go to happy hour, and talk about food, and challenge each other to races - but Bitty’s trying not to think about the race.

Work, the week after the Harry Potter marathon, is the most intense it’s ever been. Holster and Shitty are working on their VC pitch in earnest, and the numbers still aren’t where they’d like them to be; Lardo spends half of Monday shut up in a room with Holster and emerges with new, more aggressive targets for their brand metrics, including social media reach and share of voice.

Bitty’s coordinating sponsorships with athletes, responding to SAMwell’s Twitter followers, and creating content for the app’s brand new Snapchat account. He loses half an hour explaining to Ransom why he can’t "just _make_ a video go viral,” until Lardo rescues him and makes Ransom go back to writing code.

On top of managing the social campaigns, Bitty’s spending a lot of time with Lardo, learning the ropes of SAMwell’s overall marketing program. “The more you know about this, the more we can sync up our campaigns to play off of each other,” Lardo explains. “Plus, I might want to like, you know, take an actual vacation day at some point in my life, and it would be nice if you were familiar enough with everything that you could put out any fires.”

It’s cool, being Lardo’s second-in-command. The more he sees of her beautiful, meticulous branding and user experience documents, the more he can see the hand of the artist underneath the marketer.

Even Ford is getting in on all the activity. Bitty arrives at work one morning to find Lardo at Ford’s desk, walking her through setting up the email newsletter. “All the templates are already created,” Lardo is saying, “so all you have to do is paste in the content, and make sure it’s formatted correctly.”

“Oh jeez,” Ford says, “Do you ever stop freaking out right before you hit Send?”

Lardo grimaces. “Not so far,” she says, “I’ll let you know.”

“OK, what next?”

“OK, so once you send it, you want to keep an eye on the percentage of people who opened it, and then the percentage of those people who actually clicked through into the app. You can do that on this dashboard - “

“Hey Ford,” Bitty finally interrupts, “did Lardo commandeer you to work on marketing stuff?”

“I one hundred percent did, and I’m not sorry,” Lardo grins. “Did you know Ford knows Photoshop?”

“I don’t know if I _know_ it, I’ve _used_ it,” Ford protests. “I used to make posters for our Theatre department’s shows, in college.”

“That’s awesome!” Bitty says. “I am hopeless with graphic design stuff, I’m definitely more of a words person than a graphics person.”

Ford’s brown eyes sparkle. “Well, we make a good team, then.”

Nursey is on the phone all hours of the day, and has taken to pacing back and forth in front of his desk while talking. Bitty finds this intensely irritating, as Nursey moves into and out of his peripheral vision over and over. All is forgiven, though, when Nursey signs the app’s first NBA partner, the Sacramento Kings. Holster does a lap of the office with Nursey thrown over his shoulder after that one, and they all end up at the Haus that night, drinking screwdrivers (Ransom’s rationale for this is “California! Oranges!”) and toasting Nursey’s success. It’s almost worth the next day’s terrible acidic hangovers.

Bitty’s so busy he’s barely had time to think about Jack at all. He’s proud of himself; clearly he’s getting his crush under control, and he and Jack can just be friendly acquaintances. Friendly acquaintances who go to happy hour, and talk about food, and challenge each other to races - but Bitty’s trying not to think about the race.

~*~

 **Ransom:** OK team it’s time to get serious  
Bitty’s race is one week away  
@Bitty let us know if you want to do like some Rocky stairs or something  
I have a stopwatch  
just fyi

 **Bitty:** Thanks Rans but I was thinking I would just skate mostly

 _ **Holster** shared a Google Doc_  
**Skate Race Book and Side Bets**

 **Ford:** @Holster could you not use work Slack for your nefarious gambling schemes

 **Holster:** Don’t try to crush my entrepreneurial spirit it built this place  
seriously though  
someone should bet on Jack

 **Dex:** My money’s on Bitty 110%  
_Bitty reacted with :blush:_

 **Holster:** Think how hurt Jack will be  
to learn no one has faith in him  
think of his poor sad handsome face

 **Shitty:** I bet on Jack!

 **Holster:** You also bet on Bitty  
which  
do you not get how this wroks  
works

 **Shitty:** don’t make me choose between them

 **Lardo:** I’ve got $20 on “someone falls down”

 **Chowder:** It feels wrong to bet against Bitty!

 **Bitty:** oh no by all means bet against me, it would be very silly not to!

 **Shitty:** I’m just going to put this here:  
**Eric Bittle - 2013 U.S. Collegiate Figure Skating Championship Semifinal**  
Eric Bittle skating to Beyoncé’s “Halo” for the Boston College skating team, 2013 USCFS semifinals.

 **Bitty:** Oh Lord I’m on YouTube

 **Chowder:** I love this song!

_several people are typing_

**Ransom:** WHAT

 **Nursey:** OH DAMN

 **Lardo:** How are you doing this

 **Dex:** Nice! Stuck the landing

_several people are typing_

**Chowder:** Did you ever get dizzy doing all that spinning?

 **Bitty:** Yes

 **Dex:** this is awesommmmmee

 **Ransom:** I can’t believe how much air you’re getting on these jumps

 **Ford:** bah I’m so stressed out I want you to win

 **Bitty:** If it makes you feel better it’s in the past  
and I definitely won  
_Ford, Ransom, Holster and Lardo reacted with :high-five:_

 **Ransom:** I take it all back, you don’t need to train for this race, you clearly have your house in order, carry on

 **Nursey:** Do you still have those sparkly pants

 **Bitty:** OMG seriously, don’t any of you have work to do?

_You created this private channel today. This is the very beginning of the **piewatch** channel._

**Ransom**  
_joined #piewatch by invitation from @holster, along with @dex, @nursey, @chowder, @ford, @lardo, and @shitty_

 **Holster:** Who’s got eyes on the pie

 **Ford:** I saw him bringing in the supplies this morning, it’s gonna be strawberry rhubarb with a lattice top  
I think he’s planning on baking it after the Growth team meeting at 11

 **Nursey:** NOICE

 **Ransom:** Wish we had some vanilla ice cream

 **Ford:** Actually…:smile:

 **Holster:** DO NOT JOKE WITH ME ON THIS FORD

 **Ford:** Shitty had me add some to our latest Amazon order  
it’s in the freezer

 **Holster:** God bless America

 **Shitty:** Can we not bring jingoistic religious nationalism into our pure and wholesome pie appreciation channel

 **Dex:** Cthulhu bless America

 **Shitty:** Thank you

~*~

The day of the race, Jack meets the SAMwell team outside the Falconers’ arena. They’re in high spirits, laughing and jostling each other and taking selfies and chirping Chowder, who is almost vibrating out of his shoes with excitement.

Jack’s spent the morning thinking, _is this weird? This is weird, it’s gonna be weird, isn’t it?_ They’re going to think he’s so full of shit, ushering them through the arena like the lord of the manor. But when they see him, he’s greeted with hugs and slaps on the back, and a solemn fist bump from Lardo that he accepts as the gesture of largesse that it is. He texts George, _My friends are here_ , and she texts back _Have fun._

 _My friends are here,_ he thinks, his heart a red helium balloon in his chest.

“Jack fucking Zimmermann!” Shitty exclaims. “Thank you for inviting us to your humble abode. Oh my God, your ass should not be _allowed,_ ” he continues when Jack turns to lead them into the arena.

Jack just smiles; he’s getting used to Shitty. “Thanks, bro.”

“Oh no no, thank _you!_ ” Shitty grins, pausing to wait for Lardo.

Jack takes the opportunity to drop in alongside Bitty. “Ready to race?” he asks, in a tone that aims for nonchalant but sounds a little high and strangled to his ear.

“I guess so,” Bitty says wryly. “I can’t believe I let you talk me into this.”

“What? This was _your_ idea.”

“I was _joking,_ Mister Zimmermann, and if you hadn’t brought it up in front of my whole workplace we wouldn’t be here right now.” Bitty’s tone is indignant, but his eyes are merry. He sticks his tongue out, and Jack laughs. He can’t help it.

“You’re really really sure this is OK for us to do?” Ford says anxiously as they walk through the empty, echoing halls. “We don’t want to get you in trouble.”

“It’s definitely OK,” Jack says. “I cleared it with Georgia last week, she thinks it’s hilarious. She says to tell you hi,” he says to Lardo, “and that she loves the updated user interface.”

“That’s all Dex,” Nursey says, patting Dex on the shoulder. Dex turns slowly to stare at him like he’s grown another head.

Nursey’s smile collapses into a look of irritation. “What? It’s a compliment, try not to pass out.”

Jack’s not sure what that’s about, but notes that Chowder flashes Nursey an enthusiastic thumbs-up once Dex isn’t looking. Nursey just rolls his eyes.

When they enter the Falconers’ locker room, the group quiets down. The room is quieter and a lot cleaner than it will be during the season, with no extra equipment scattered around, no smell of sweat and blood and adrenaline rising off of the team’s pads in their lockers.

“Wow,” Ransom whispers, reverently brushing his fingers across the team logo.

“Thanks for taking us back here, man, this is really cool,” Lardo offers.

“Sure.” He doesn’t know what else to say, feels suddenly awkward and shy and unable to meet their gazes. “Let’s...get out there, eh?”

He feels better, more confident, when they’ve filed into the Falconers’ box. He can smell the ice, hear the faint buzz of the lights. Ever since he was a kid - even when things got really bad, when he was operating through a deep Xanax fog and the taste of iron choked his throat every time he left the house - stepping onto the ice made it all slip away. When he’s here, he knows who he is.

He straps on his skates and steps out, skating a few wide, easy loops, getting warmed up. Most of the team will have to stay in the box, but Shitty and Ransom and Holster have all brought skates, so it won’t just be Jack and Bitty on the ice. Naturally, the four of them make a beeline for center ice, and Holster’s long arms come in handy when he takes group selfies with everybody’s phones.

Bitty’s fully absorbed in making sure they get a good shot, and taking some Snaps for the team’s story; Jack takes the opportunity to finally really look at him, instead of the stolen glances he’s risked so far. He’s never seen Bitty in workout gear before; he gets so distracted by Bitty’s perky little ass in his warm-ups that it takes him a moment to realize -

“Wait, you’re doing this in figure skating skates and I’m in hockey skates? How is that fair?”

“Whoa, what happened to ‘Bitty, I’m in the NHL’?” Lardo calls in a deep voice that Jack is sure sounds nothing like him. The team cackles.

Bitty glides to a stop in front of Jack with a lofty smile. “You are more than welcome to wear figure skating skates if you have some to hand, Jack.”

“Fine,” Jack replies, feeling foolish. “It’ll make the match a little less one-sided.”

Bitty puffs his chest up, and he puts his hands on his hips, looking like an angry little rooster. “Oh I’m going to whip your butt all over this ice for that.”

“YES!” Shitty shouts. “Let’s get it ON!”

Bitty and Jack skate to the end of the rink, leaving the team clustered around the “finish line,” the far end of the neutral zone.

“OK, I want a clean race!” Shitty calls. “No tripping, no grabbing, no performance-enhancing drugs of any kind.” Holster has produced a flask from somewhere and hands it to Ransom, draping an arm over his shoulder. Shitty snags the flask and continues his spiel. “First one across the line wins the trophy and the title of All-Time SAMwell Racing Champ!”

“There’s a trophy?” Jack whispers to Bitty.

“Have you _met_ them?” Bitty whispers back. “Of _course_ there’s a trophy.” Sure enough, Ford is clutching a naked Barbie doll that’s been spray-painted gold, its hair standing stiffly out behind it. It’s ridiculous and kind of gross and Jack realizes he really, really wants to win it.

“On your mark!” Shitty yells. “Get set!....GO!”

Jack drives forward with the powerful thighs that 20 years of hockey have given him. He figures he’ll start out strong, see where Bitty’s at, and adjust accordingly; he wants to win, but he doesn’t want to embarrass anybody. He feels good about his plan, right up until Bitty sails past him like he’s not even trying.

Bitty’s skimming along the ice, seeming to barely touch it, and Jack’s gobsmacked brain has a moment to appreciate Bitty’s extraordinary grace before it registers that _holy shit,_ Jack is _losing._ He digs in hard, pressing forward now, focused on the finish line like it’s the opposing team’s goal. He’s not even hearing the team’s cheering anymore as he pushes himself forward, forgetting his plan to let Bitty almost win.

In the end, it’s pretty close; Bitty darts across the finish line less than a foot ahead of Jack.

The team goes absolutely apeshit, shrieking with joy and pouring onto the ice to celebrate. The guys on skates get there first; Bitty’s face registers a moment of absolute panic when he sees them speeding toward him, but they crash into him for a full-on celly before he can stop them. Jack is just a moment behind them, though. He sees Bitty’s face, full of joy and triumph, and it doesn’t matter that he’s lost, that the video of him losing will almost certainly wind up on Snapchat, and then on SportsCenter. He’s just completely bowled over by Bitty.

He uses his momentum to propel himself into the middle of the celly, and scoops Bitty right off his skates in a hug. “Oof! My goodness,” Bitty says breathlessly.

“That was AWESOME!” Jack yells, spinning him around. The sound of the team cheering brings him to his senses before he makes too much of an ass of himself. He sets Bitty gently back down on the ice and composes himself. He extends a hand for a handshake, a much more appropriate gesture from the loser to the winner. “Great job.”

Bitty cocks his head to the side. “You sure you didn’t just let me win?”

“Nope,” Jack says, and can’t keep himself from grinning. “You totally kicked my ass.”

~*~

Winning the race makes Bitty a hero at work; the video also gets picked up by the sports media, earning SAMwell a flurry of new interest and followers, not to mention a few very _thirsty_ Jack Zimmermann fans sliding into Bitty’s DMs. Bitty spends most of a day cringing in embarrassment after one particularly detailed message; it just firms up his resolve to be just a friend to Jack, not some lovesick fan making an ass of himself with a crush.

That resolve all but goes out the window a few days later, when he walks in to Diablo Coffee and sees Jack at a table, reading a book and drinking a giant mug of tea. Bitty pauses for a moment, his breath stolen, watching the way Jack’s hair falls over his forehead, the open, focused expression on Jack’s face as he reads.

Sitting here in this coffee shop, reading, completely removed from hockey, Jack could be anyone - an office drone like Bitty, or a grad student or something. If, you know, the grad student spent a lot of time at the gym, and had arms the size of Bitty’s head, and shoulders...Bitty reminds himself he probably shouldn’t be ogling his friends (who are _just his friends_ ), and spends the rest of his time in line getting his head on straight.

“Are you wearing a Falconers t-shirt?” he asks Jack a few minutes later, approaching the table with his coffee.

Jack looks up from his book, that shy smile of his breaking over his face like a sunrise. “Bitty! Hey. Euh…” he glances down at himself. “Yeah, I guess so? It was free,” he says, like that explains everything.

“Oh honey,” Bitty replies, sitting down across from him. Clearly, Jack is in dire need of his help.

It becomes a regular thing, them having coffee together. Bitty doesn’t have time to get coffee every day, and Jack’s not always there when he does go, but more often than not, they end up talking over breakfast in the morning. Bitty can’t quite bring himself to eat egg white omelets, even for Jack, but he does start ordering the ham and cheese croissant instead of a danish or a muffin in a concession to Jack’s love affair with protein.

Talking to Jack is so easy. Bitty tells him about growing up in Georgia, about figure skating and baking and why Kim and Kanye are perfect for each other (“They’re both just really passionate brand marketers at heart, and I think it’s beautiful that they found each other”). Jack talks to him about Quebec, about the new body-weight workout he’s trying out for when he’s on the road. He gradually, hesitantly, starts to talk about his anxiety, about the overdose, the scandal, and about working his way back.

And hockey. Bitty’s always thought of professional athletes more in terms of fame and fortune, but Jack really _loves_ hockey. He talks about plays and formations with a real tenderness and affection, like he’s describing his children, or his best friends. Bitty likes hockey all right (although his house was more of a football house, growing up), but he’d never counted it among his favorite conversation topics. Listening to Jack talk about it, though, he starts to appreciate it in a way he never has before. He’s almost excited for the preseason to start, even though it will probably mean Jack has less time for coffee in the morning.

It’s hard to believe it’s only been a couple of months since he first met Jack, hard to believe Jack’s becoming this important to him this fast. And if Bitty doesn’t tell Jack everything, about the situation with his apartment, or how homesick he is, or the things his father had said the last time he saw him, well, Bitty doesn’t tell anybody those things.

Throughout his day, he finds himself smiling about things Jack has said. He saves up things to tell him, things to make Jack smile, questions he wants to ask him. Bitty knows he’s thinking about Jack more often than he should, but now in addition to thinking about Jack’s strong hands, his long legs, the streamlined perfection of his body, Bitty finds his thoughts dwelling on Jack’s tender heart, the little wrinkle he gets between his eyebrows when he’s anxious, the fondness in his eyes when he talks about his family. He thinks about Jack’s astonished, joyful face when Bitty won the race, and there’s a little birdlike, nervous, fluttering thing in his stomach that feels almost like hope.

~*~

The day of the pitch, Shitty wakes up early. He lies in bed, staring at the ceiling, until his alarm goes off, just for the principle of the thing; he and Holster were up late practicing the night before, and he’s not going to let his his body be robbed of extra half hour in bed just because his asshole brain won’t shut up.

He spends an extra long time in the shower, shaves carefully, trims his moustache, and slicks his hair back with the seldom-used product in his medicine cabinet. He’d debated chopping his flow off entirely before the pitch, like he did before law school, but Ransom said that long-but-styled sent more of a “startup entrepreneur” vibe than short-and-neat, and Ransom knows a lot about hair for a guy who shaves his head.

He slips into his best jeans and a soft v-neck, then puts on a blazer left over from his Harvard days. Looking in the mirror, he sees B.S. Knight, tech bro, wealthy scion of the Massachusetts elite, ready to wheel and deal. This guy is too neat and tidy, and Shitty has a sudden urge to fuck shit up.

He settles for marching up the stairs to the attic, banging on a pot with a wooden spoon. “ROAD TRIP!” he yells. Holster is fumbling with a tie in the mirror. On the bottom bunk, Ransom is still under the covers, one arm holding a pillow over his face. “Ungh,” Ransom mutters, his voice muffled by the pillow. “Go ‘way, Shitty.”

“ROAD. TRIP. ROAD. TRIP,” Shitty yells, redoubling his efforts with the spoon. “EASTBOUND AND DOWN, LOAD IT UP AND TRUCK IT, WE GON’ DO WHAT THEY SAY CAN’T BE DONE…”

Ransom pokes his head out. “Shitty. _I will murder you._ ” He rolls over to see Holster, still struggling valiantly with his tie. “Dude, come here.” Holster makes a grateful face and comes to sit on Ransom’s bed; Ransom ties his tie with practiced movements. “It’s going to be fine,” he says, looking Holster in the eye. “It’s going to be _fine,_ ” he repeats, glancing over Holster’s head at Shitty.

“I know it’s going to be fine,” Shitty says, but he flops down on Ransom’s bed anyway. “It’s going to be fan-fucking-tastic. We have the best data, and the best app, and the best _team,_ ” he says, rubbing Ransom’s bald head for luck, “and the best _pitch,_ ” rubbing Holster’s head too, because why not, “and if they don’t see that they’re a bunch of goddamn assholes anyway and not worth our time.”

“Damn straight,” says Ransom. He kisses Holster’s cheek with a hearty smack, and gives Shitty a similar smack on the forehead. “Now get the fuck out of my room, I don’t have to be up for another hour.”

Shitty’s queued up an awesome playlist for the drive (“It’s not a road trip, bro, it’s like barely an hour,” Holster protests), and he kicks things off with Dropkick Murphys’ “Shipping Off to Boston.” Holster is tense, navigating his truck through morning traffic, but once they get out of Providence he starts to relax and sing along. By the time Rihanna’s “Bitch Better Have My Money” comes on, they’re both belting it out, and it’s starting to feel like it did on the bus when they were in college, on the way to or from road games, talking, listening to music, doing homework.

Shitty’s phone lights up with a text. _Good luck today._ It’s from Jack, that beautiful taciturn enigma. “Zimms says good luck today,” he tells Holster.

“That’s nice of him. Did he end it with a period?”

“Yeah, I don’t think he knows it makes him seem curt.”

Holster snorts. “Apparently Bitty’s trying to get him to stop, but I don’t know what he’s gonna do instead. Can you imagine getting a text from him with an exclamation point?”

“Or an emoji,” Shitty cackles. “Good luck today, heart heart winking smiley face snowflake hockey stick.”

“Baaaahh,” Holster groans, changing lanes to try to maneuver around a slow patch. “I just want this to be overrrrr.”

“Well, in four hours, you will get your wish,” Shitty points out.

“No way man, that’s just like, the beginning. If they don’t like us, we have to do this _again_ for someone _else,_ but if they _do_ like us, there’s like fifty-leven more steps before we actually get the money.”

Shitty bangs his head against the headrest. “Thanks, bro, really helping me get in the ol’ venture capital mindset over here.”

“Let’s go over the pitch again,” Holster says. “Start from the beginning.”

“OK.” Shitty sits up, composes himself, puts on his CEO Voice. “There are tens of thousands of athletes at the professional, collegiate, and high school levels in the United States alone…”

~*~

The preseason is starting up; Jack is sorry to cut back on his breakfasts with Bitty, but is looking forward to the familiar routine of the hockey season. When he’s training, or practicing, his mind is quiet, his body alert. It’s just like slipping into his pads, perfectly molded to his body after years of practice. It feels right.

There are a few new faces this season, as usual. Jack takes some time before practice starts the first day to check in with his alternate captains, see how everyone’s doing.

“What do you think of the Russian guy?” he asks Thirdy, who has a good eye for team fit and overall play style.

“Mashkov? The guy’s hilarious, the team really likes him,” Thirdy says. “He’s got a wicked slapshot, and I’ve seen his tape from the Aces, he’s a brawler when he has to be. On a line with you?” he says, eyeing Jack, “I think it’s gonna be a good season.”

The Aces, right. Jack had almost forgotten that the Falconers’ newest player used to play on a line with Jack’s ex-boyfriend. Ex-best-friend. Ex-lover. Whatever he’s calling Kent, these days, when he thinks about him at all.

 _Just another skinny little blonde, causing trouble in my life,_ he thinks, and surprises himself by smiling a little bit. It’s amazing how quickly the memory of blue-gray eyes can be replaced by chocolate-brown ones, or how the memory of Kent’s arrogant leer doesn’t sting as much when tempered by Bitty’s bright smile. Not that Bitty is his...anything. Still.

They have a good practice, running some drills, and by the end of it Jack’s starting to get a feel for how the team’s going to work together. Thirdy’s right; this has the potential to be a really good season.

He’s used to keeping relatively quiet in the locker room, but Mashkov startles him by flopping down on the bench next to him. “So. Zimmermann,” he booms, “I'm hear so much about you, I am thinking you are ghost story. Something to scare the little children.” He reaches out with a finger and pokes Jack in the side. “Nope! Real,” he continues, with a shit-eating grin.

“Welcome to the team, Alexei,” Jack says politely, trying not to laugh.

“Pssh,” Mashkov waves a hand. “Call me Tater, everyone is calling me Tater.” He leans in. “You know, we are the same, you and I.” Jack gets the impression Tater thinks he’s speaking in a quiet voice now. “My mom is famous athlete in Russia. Everyone says, ‘oh, what is he going to do.’” He slaps Jack on the knee. “We show them.”

“Yeah,” Jack replies. “I guess we will.” He realizes that this is more than he talked to any of the new players at the first practice last year, maybe even more than he’s talked to a couple of them in the entire _year._ A year ago, if some big Russian dude had come up and slapped him on the knee, talking about how they were alike, Jack would have frozen, clammed up, shut down. _This is how regular people feel when people talk to them,_ he tells himself.

“Hey Mashkov.” Marty’s hair is still wet, and he reeks of IcyHot. “A couple of us were going to go grab a drink, you wanna come?”

“Yes!” Tater exclaims. He slaps Jack on the back, hard enough that Jack’s pretty sure he’s going to have a bruise. “Zimmermann, you’re coming also?”

Jack almost expects Marty to object - Jack never goes out with the team - but Marty just looks at him, eyebrows raised. “OK,” he says, before he can think too much about it. “If...it’s OK that I come?”

Marty looks surprised, and...happy? “Are you kidding?” he says. “I’ve been trying to get you to come out with us for _years._ ”

 _Is that true?_ Jack asks himself. Marty’s definitely invited him for after-practice drinks a time or two, but that was just a perfunctory invite, to avoid the appearance of excluding him. He obviously doesn’t really care if Jack goes out or not. Right? But Marty seems genuinely pleased that Jack is coming, and so does Thirdy, and so do some of the other guys.

 _I can’t wait to tell Bitty about this,_ Jack thinks, following his teammates out of the arena, and has to clench his jaw to keep from grinning like a fool.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Thursday! Looking at my plans for the rest of this, I can say with increasing confidence that it will end up being 10 chapters - so this is the halfway mark!
> 
> Thanks as ever to Laurens for beta-ing and teaching me that I don't know how to spell "Cthulhu."
> 
> Thanks also for your comments and kudos - I've always seen authors on here talk about how big of a difference they make, and now that I'm writing fanfic again I can confirm that's 1000% true.
> 
> Coming next week in Chapter 6: Jammie Dodgers; Finally, Some Hockey
> 
> ETA: Thank you to written_chaos for pointing out that "Shipping Off to Boston" is by Dropkick Murphys, not Flogging Molly (I knew that!).


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Oh my God, he looked right at us,” Chowder gushes, clutching Bitty’s arm. Bitty, whose heart has climbed all the way up into his throat at the sight of Jack in full Falcs regalia, just nods and clutches him back. It’s one thing to know that your friend, who you see for coffee on the regular, is also a hockey star. It’s another thing to actually see him in the arena, surrounded by cheering fans, while you’re wearing a jersey with his name on it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW for this chapter: canon-typical hockey violence, use of misogynist and homophobic slurs by a background character

“Hey y’all! I am broadcasting to you live from the SAMwell kitchen, which is my new full-time center of baking operations after the oven at my old - at my place scorched an entire pan of biscotti I was making for the team.

“Anyway, happy fall! We’re finally starting to really feel it here, the leaves are starting to change and there’s a little bite to the air. I do not understand the number of people who come to this part of the country to look at leaves, in Georgia people only travel this far for something good like peaches. Y’all know you can’t even _eat_ leaves, right?

“Things at work continue to be a whirlwind, I feel like a basket of puppies on a Ferris wheel sometimes with everything going on. Thanks to everyone who commented on the video of the race, Lord, I still can’t believe I even did that! Y’all are very kind with the compliments. I guess I don’t have to tell you who the SAMwell team will be rooting for this hockey season!

“I’m so excited that it’s finally fall so we can start baking with some fall flavors! I don’t care what Starbucks says, it’s too early for pumpkin, but my apple pie has a maple sugar top that will have you feeling like you’ve got harvest time on a plate. If you’re planning on making apple pie regularly, you might want to invest in an apple corer and peeler, my mama got me one for Christmas last year and I _love_ it…”

~*~

Jack slides his jersey off, feeling the sweat dripping out of his hair onto the back of his neck. “Good practice, Poots,” he says to the rookie as he moves past, and is gratified to see Poots light up with a smile.

“It’s nice to see you giving the rook some encouragement.” Marty is refreshing the tape holding his broken toe to its neighbor. “It means something to him, especially coming from you.”

“Why me?” Jack’s thankful his face is already red from exertion.

“You’re his captain,” Marty says. “Plus, I don’t know if you know this, but you’re kind of, like, famous?”

Jack rolls his eyes. “I just hope I’m half as famous as you are, when I’m your extremely advanced age.”

“He CHIRPS!” Marty cackles. “There might just be a personality in there after all.”

“Zimmboni!” Tater is, as usual, choosing to air-dry after his shower. Jack tries not to make direct eye contact with floppy Russian schlong when Tater wanders over. “When we are racing? I want to go viral video, become YouTube celebrity.”

Jack just shakes his head. The team has been chirping him relentlessly since the video, but there’s no malice in it; it’s pretty similar to the shit Lardo and Shitty have been giving him via text, actually.

“We still on for dinner tomorrow?” Marty asks Tater. “Gaby’s making pork chops.”

“Yes! I am bringing bread,” Tater finally starts stepping into his clothes, “and wine.”

Jack’s digging his stuff out from his bag, only half paying attention, and is startled when Marty says, “Jack? You want to come for dinner tomorrow?”

“Oh,” he says, fiddling with his laces, “that’s OK, I don’t want to intrude.”

“You wouldn’t be intruding!” Marty surprises him further by dropping into Quebecois. «Really, we’d love it. You should come.»

Tater is looking at him expectantly. “Euh, OK,” he says, his throat feeling thick. “Thanks.”

“Great, I’ll let her know!”

“See? Parse was right about you,” Tater grins, buttoning his shirt.

“Parse? You talked to Kenny - you talked to Kent about me?” This conversation just keeps getting weirder. Jack sinks slowly down to sit on the bench, trying to process this information.

“Yeah, he says you are good guy, just - what is - _shy_?” he looks to Jack for confirmation that this is the right word. “He says, ‘Jack is good friend, if he let you be his friend.’” He tosses his hair out of his eyes and gives a cocky wink and grin that is, Jack has to admit, a dead-on Kent Parson impression, Russian accent notwithstanding.

“That is -” _a lot nicer thing than I thought he’d say about me,_ Jack thinks. _A lot nicer than I probably deserve._ He knows that he’s come a long way since he and Kenny were scared, angry, 18-year-old kids, falling into each other and falling apart, but he hadn’t really considered that Kenny’s probably come a long way, too. “That’s nice,” he finally mutters.

“Parse is good guy. He is kind of a dick,” Tater chuckles, “but good guy, anyway. I think he...” he glances at Jack, doesn’t finish his thought. “Anyway, I’m watch tape now. Bye, Zimmboni. Don’t stay here all night, OK?”

Jack sits on the bench, lost in thought, for a few more minutes, before shaking his head and heading toward the showers.

~*~

 **Chowder:** My teeth taste weird after my sandwich

 **Ford:** I don’t think my teeth taste like anything!

 **Holster:** Oh sure they do  
you’re always tasting your teeth  
you’re never not tasting your teeth

 **Ransom:** He’s right  
trust me, I’m a doctor

 **Lardo:** Your teeth are just bones that you get to taste

 **Dex:** I guess if you wanted to you could taste your other bones but it would be a lot of work

 **Ford:** GROSS come on people

 **Nursey:** Now I can’t stop tasting my teeth, what have you done?

 **Ford:** At least take this to #chirps, #general is supposed to be for work-related convos

 **Shitty:** Here is a work-related thing: I’m sending a calendar invite for everyone for the evening of October 8th  
It is a TEAM OUTING

 **Ransom:** Is it mandatory

 **Shitty:** It’s gonna be fun

 **Lardo:** It’s fundatory!

 **Shitty:** Local sports star and Friend of SAMwell J.L. Zimmermann has gotten us tickets to a hockey game  
haha  
just because I’m in my office with the door closed doesn’t mean I can’t hear you all yelling

 **Holster:** @Bitty did you know about this?

 **Bitty:** I might have suspected

 **Ransom:** OMG I can’t believe I’m going to get to see Alexei Mashkov play for the Falcs

 **Bitty:** Would it be weird to ask Jack to sign my jersey?

 **Shitty:** I think it would be weird not to!

~*~

Bitty is sound asleep when he hears someone calling his name.

“Bitty?”

For a moment, he thinks it’s his mother - but his mother’s never called him Bitty. He struggles groggily toward consciousness, opening his eyes just a crack against the bright fluorescent lights. The person calls him again: “Bitty? Wake up.”

“Hlmph,” says Bitty.

“Dude. Wake _up_ ,” they say impatiently, and that undertone of irritation is familiar enough that it finally pierces the fog and makes Bitty sit up. Sure enough, it’s Dex, leaning over him, frowning.

“Dex? What are you doing here, it’s Saturday.” Bitty’s rubbing his eyes and trying to somehow look like he hadn’t just been in dreamland.

“I came in to get some work done.” Dex is wearing a t-shirt with a bright floral pattern, and a deeply suspicious expression. “What are you doing here?”

“Oh…” Bitty looks around at the reception area, where he’s been stretched out on the couch. “I was gonna make some jam, but I guess I fell asleep.”

“You were making jam?” Dex asks. “At work? In your pajamas?”

“I...like to be comfy?”

Dex heaves a gusty sigh, blowing a tuft of red hair off their forehead. “Bitty...did you sleep here?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” says Bitty with all the dignity he can muster, pulling his blanket around him.

“Really.” Dex’s hand darts forward and pulls Señor Bun out from behind Bitty. “Do you always bring a bunny friend to take weekend naps at work?”

Bitty snatches the stuffed bunny back from Dex and hugs it to his chest, staring at the floor, eyes stinging. He feels Dex’s weight drop onto the couch beside him as they sit down.

“Bitty.” Bitty risks a glance at Dex and is surprised to see no trace of their usual surliness on their face, just a look of sweet concern that threatens to make his eyes well over. “What’s going on? You can tell me.”

“Um.” Bitty takes a deep breath in through his nose and blinks rapidly, trying to compose himself. “I was on a month-to-month lease, and my landlord decided to sell the building, so...I had to be out by the end of September. I’ve been trying to find a new place, but things have just been so _busy_ , and everywhere is so _expensive…_ ” he sniffles, feeling like a child.

“I get that,” Dex says carefully, “but...bro. You can’t _live_ here.”

“I know, I know that, I do, it’s really just for a week or two until I can find a place, I swear.” He puts a hand on Dex’s arm. “Please don’t tell Shitty and them, I promise it’s not going to be a long-term thing.”

Dex makes a helpless gesture. “I...yeah, OK, I won’t tell them, but, like... _shit_ , dude, where’s all your _stuff?_ ”

“In storage. A lot of storage unit places give you the first month free.”

They glower at him, and Bitty realizes with a start that they’re worried, not mad. Is Dex just...always worried?

“I gotta get to work, I have some stuff to do later,” they say abruptly, and start to walk over to the door to the rest of the office, but stop. “Hey.” They shove their hands in their pockets and scowl even more deeply. “I would offer for you to come stay with me, but I live in a house with like 6 other people.”

Bitty nods. “Thanks, Dex.”

“Anyway. I’ll ask around and see if anyone’s looking for a roommate.” They open the door to leave, then turn back one more time, face hopeful. “So...was that thing about the jam just a cover story, or…?”

A relieved laugh bursts from Bitty’s lips. “Blackberry jam, coming right up!”

~*~

Shitty’s trying to ignore Holster, and focus on the phone call. It’s tough, because Holster’s eyes are practically boring a hole in him. And Holster's tapping his pen distractedly on the cover of his notebook. And jiggling his leg, which is causing Shitty’s whole desk to shake.

Shitty finally reaches out and puts a hand on Holster’s knee; Holster stops fidgeting with a guilty look. Shitty says, “OK. Thanks, Brad. We’ll talk soon. OK. You too,” and hangs up. His heart is hammering with a kind of sick exhilaration.

“So?” Holster asks, leaning in eagerly.

Shitty leans back in his chair and rolls his head from side to side, trying to get his neck to pop, willing his pulse to slow down. “Fuuuuuuuuck Brad, that guy SUUUUCKS.”

“Oh yeah, no question, Brad is a terrible person. The rest of them are all right, though. Come on, what did he say?”

Shitty considers continuing to talk about Brad just to fuck with Holster, but looks at his friend’s big hopeful puppylike face and relents. “They liked the pitch. They think the idea has promise and the business model is sound.”

“BRO.” Holster leaps to his feet and reaches out to give him a fist bump, but Shitty grabs his hand and pulls him into a hug. Holster has smelled the same as long as Shitty’s known him, like Tide and Speed Stick, and Shitty takes a second to draw comfort from Holster’s solid, familiar presence.

Holder claps him on the back. “OK, so, did he say what next steps are?”

“Yeah, and I need you to explain them to me,” Shitty says, plopping back down in his chair and pulling up his notes. “They want us to do a...pre-money valuation? And they’re going to send an analyst to look at our numbers so they can do one too.”

“Got it,” Holster’s nodding and scribbling in his notebook. “I figured that would be next. Basically, we need to figure out how much we think the company’s worth, and they’re going to do the same, and we’ll go back and forth until we can agree on a number. How much they invest compared to that number will determine how much of the company they’ll own after they invest.”

 _How much of the company they’ll own._ The enormity of that hits Shitty right between the eyes. He knows that’s how venture capital works, but it suddenly seems a lot more _real._ “That’s weird,” he says, “it’s weird to think about those guys owning part of SAMwell.”

“Potentially owning a _lot_ of SAMwell, depending on how this goes,” Holster points out. “It is weird. It’s kind of...huge.”

“It’s _hugely_ huge, my bespectacled friend,” Shitty waggles his eyebrows and tries for his customary shit-eating grin. “OK, and then they want a bunch of other stuff. Full bios of the leadership team, so that’s you, me -”

“And Ransom and Lardo, yeah.”

“Some numbers about our major competitors, some stuff about the market, they wanna know how we’re planning to scale, stuff like that.”

Holster nods. “Pretty standard stuff. We’ll need to get with Lardo on an accelerated growth trajectory.”

“I thought we were already _on_ an accelerated growth trajectory,” Shitty protests. “The team’s been killing themselves working, we can’t keep on at this pace.”

“That’s why we need the funding, so we can hire more people, so we can keep growing faster.” Holster’s still scribbling in his notebook as he’s talking; Shitty’s never understood how he can do that. “The investors are going to want to hear about how they’re going to make their money back.”

“Ugh, it always comes back to money.”

“Well, yeah, bro, they’re called venture _capitalists._ ”

Shitty chuckles and tries to ignore the uneasy twinge in his gut. “I just wish they were slightly _less_ capitalist. Maybe we need to find some venture socialists.”

Holster stops writing and looks up at him, his face serious. “If you want to keep looking for another firm, we can do that,” he says. “We got lucky with the connection from Brad, but that doesn’t mean we have to go for it.”

“No,” Shitty sighs, “it’s a good opportunity. We’ll just have to make sure that we keep SAMwell, SAMwell, through all of this.”

“For sure,” Holster says. “If we can’t do that, we shouldn’t take the deal.”

Shitty looks Holster in the eye. “So. Are we doing this?”

“Yeah dogg,” says Holster, “I think we are.” He laughs, looking so excited and happy that Shitty finds himself laughing, too. They fist-bump across Shitty’s desk. “We’re doing this.”

~*~

Attending a sporting event with the SAMwell crew turns out to be an even bigger deal than Bitty thought it would be. About half the team already has Falconers jerseys (Zimmermann for Bitty and Shitty, Mashkov for Ransom, Snow for Chowder), and everyone else appears to have rustled up every piece of Falcs gear they can get their hands on. Lardo has a slouchy Falconers beanie pulled low over her head, and looks deeply cool; Dex has a slouchy Falconers beanie pulled low over their head, and looks unspeakably dorky.

At the arena, Shitty buys everyone a round of beers and hot dogs (yelling “TEAM OUTING” in an increasingly loud voice when anyone tries to pay him back); between that and their lengthy pregame in a nearby pub, the atmosphere is downright festive.

“I can’t believe we got to be out there,” Ransom says, looking out over the ice.

“We need to make sure someone from SAMwell challenges every pro athlete we sign to some kind of contest,” Lardo declares. “Holster, you should challenge someone from the Kings to a dunk-off next time they play the Celtics.”

“I’ll get right on that, bro,” Holster mumbles around a mouthful of hot dog.

Music starts blaring, and the Falconers take the ice. “THERE HE FUCKING IS!” yells Shitty.

A collective cheer goes up from the group, loud (and filled with obscenities) enough that the people around them turn and stare. Jack glances up at them and grins.

“Oh my God, he looked right at us,” Chowder gushes, clutching Bitty’s arm. Bitty, whose heart has climbed all the way up into his throat at the sight of Jack in full Falcs regalia, just nods and clutches him back. It’s one thing to know that your friend, who you see for coffee on the regular, is also a hockey star. It’s another thing to actually see him in the arena, surrounded by cheering fans, while you’re wearing a jersey with his name on it.

Jack looks so alive, though. The love he has for the game is evident in his every gesture. Bitty can see the confidence with which Jack moves across the ice, how at ease and natural he seems here (and when did Bitty get to know this man so well that he can tell that, all the way from up here? Best not to think about that).

It’s an intense match. Bitty’s always enjoyed watching hockey on TV, but in person, it feels a lot more brutal. He’s all too aware of how easy it is to get hurt on the ice when you’re skating that fast, just by tripping and falling - adding a bunch of giant guys trying to run into you at top speed seems _terrifying._ He’s alternating between cheering wildly every time the Falconers have the puck, and cringing at the sound of the impact every time anyone gets checked.

The Falconers score a goal toward the end of the first period, and the game starts to get chippy. Players are getting sent off left and right, but it seems like the officials have kind of given up on calling the small stuff - Holster and Ransom and Shitty are yelling about elbows and hooking and high-sticking more or less nonstop. A couple of fights break out. Jack gets checked up against the glass a few times, and takes an elbow to the face at one point. He’s skating phenomenally, though, and the team’s feeding him the puck often enough that Bitty feels like he might pass out from excitement.

Then, as the third period is starting, it happens. Jack is moving to intercept the puck, when the other team’s center shoots it, hard, toward the goal.

Right into Jack’s face.

There’s a spray of blood, the force of the blow knocking Jack backwards, but not off his skates. Bitty leaps to his feet. He’s dimly aware that his friends have done the same - that they’re loudly excoriating the other team for that reckless shot - but he can’t hear anything above his pulse thundering in his ears.

_Jack._

Jack’s gone to one knee, blood pouring freely from his face. The lineman is helping him up; Marty and one of the trainers are escorting him off the ice. The crowd applauds politely for him as he goes off. Bitty has both hands covering his mouth, he feels like screaming, but can’t, obviously.

He feels a hand on his shoulder. Lardo. “He’s gonna be OK, Bitty, he didn’t seem concussed or anything.” Jack’s blood is still on the ice. They’re replaying the injury on the big screen. There’s nowhere Bitty can look without panicking.

“Shit like that always looks way worse than it is,” Shitty adds. “Especially anything with your face, faces bleed a lot.”

Dex grimaces. “Hopefully he didn’t lose a tooth or anything.” Everyone glares at them. “What?”

 _Get your shit together,_ Bitty tells himself sternly. He takes a deep breath. “Well, that was exciting, wasn’t it? I’m sure Jack is just fine.” He forces himself to smile. “I hope he doesn’t have to miss the rest of the game!”

Lardo squeezes his hand. “Me too.”

The rest of the game is a relatively subdued watching experience for the SAMwell crew, although they rally when Mashkov scores a goal, taking the Falconers up 2-1. As the period is drawing to a close, everyone’s phones buzz with a group text.

_I’m ok. Got some stitches. Hope you enjoyed the game. Still meeting up after?_

“See? He’s fine,” Shitty says, texting back Glad you’re OK! See you after.

“I’m going to run to the bathroom before the rush,” Bitty says. He pushes out of their row, trying to hide the fact that his knees are shaking a little, and hurries to the bathroom, which, thankfully, is nearly deserted. He shuts himself into a stall and leans against the wall; covering his face with one hand, he finally lets the tears that have been threatening since Jack’s injury spill over.

 _Don’t fall for a straight boy,_ he tells himself, drawing long, shuddering breaths, _never fall for a straight boy. Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to love straight boys._

“ _Fuck,_ ” he whispers, impatiently wiping his eyes with trembling hands.

~*~

By the time the team has cleaned up and done the post-game media rounds, it’s fairly late; Jack has answered the same questions several times (just a laceration to his chin; no, it shouldn’t affect his playing in the next game) and is antsy to meet up with his friends. It sucks that this had to happen on a night they came to a game, but everyone takes a puck to the face sooner or later, and he’s lucky the injury was so minor.

“Zimmboni!” Tater grabs Jack’s elbow as he’s heading out. “Want to go for a drink? You need pain relief?”

“I’m meeting up with some friends, actually,” Jack replies.

Tater looks at him eagerly, bouncing on his toes like a huge stubbly 5-year-old.

“Do you...want to come?” Jack asks after an awkward moment.

“OK! But I’m not race anyone tonight,” Tater warns.

When they arrive at the bar, the SAMwell group is crowded around a tall table, already well into their second round of drinks. They greet Jack with cheers and whoops, but abruptly fall silent when they see who’s behind him.

“Euh, everyone, this is Tater,” Jack says, rubbing the back of his neck. Maybe this wasn’t a good idea. Chowder’s mouth is hanging open. Ransom’s eyes are like saucers.

Shitty swoops in, fortunately. “A pleasure to meet you! Shitty Knight, at your service. Would you care for a beer? We’ve ordered two pitchers of the finest Bud Light this establishment has to offer.”

Lardo sidles up on Tater’s other side; she only comes up to about his elbow. “‘Sup,” she says, tilting her head back to stare Tater down.

“Jack’s friends!” Tater exclaims, taking the pint glass Ford hands him. “I’m hearing so much about you.”

Satisfied that Tater’s in good hands, Jack takes the opportunity to walk over to the other end of the table. _Tabarnache,_ Bitty’s wearing a Zimmermann jersey; Jack guiltily puts away a rather detailed fantasy he’s had recently about Bitty showing up at his door wearing a Zimmermann jersey and nothing else. _Not appropriate, Jacques._ Trying to seem nonchalant, he slides in next to Bitty.

“Zimms!” Holster says. “How’s the chin? Beer?”

Jack waves the beer away; he shouldn’t be drinking on top of all the acetaminophen the trainers poured into him. “Chin’s fine, thanks, I think it looked worse than it was.”

“See?” Holster says to Bitty, who’s staring awkwardly into his beer. “What did we tell you?”

“We were worried about you,” Bitty says quietly into his glass.

Jack puts a hand on Bitty’s shoulder, touched by his concern. “Thanks, Bitty. But really, I’m fine.” Bitty looks up at him, brown eyes wide and wary. “I mean, I could’ve gone back in the game, even, but with Tater’s goal they decided they didn’t need me to. I’m _fine._ ”

“How many stitches did it end up being?” Chowder asks.

“...Not that many,” Jack says, touching the bandage on his chin gently. _11 is not that many, right?_

“You’re gonna need to put something on that, if you don’t want a gnarly face scar,” says Chowder. “Right, Ransom?”

Ransom is still staring blankly over at Tater. He seems afraid to move.

“Don’t talk to him,” says Holster, then turns a mock-accusing glare on Jack. “Ransom is a delicate coral reef, you can’t just toss something giant like - “ he lowers his voice - “ _Alexei fucking Mashkov_ at him and expect him to just roll with it.”

Jack glances at the other end of the table, where Lardo is now doing chin-ups using Tater’s arm as a bar. “Sorry, he wanted to come meet my friends.” He touches the bandage again; the antiseptic ointment they put on the cut is itchy.

“For heaven’s sake, quit _picking_ at it,” Bitty tells him, sounding more like his usual self.

~*~

Lardo and Tater are getting along like a house afire; Shitty guesses he shouldn’t be surprised, considering the motley crew of large, enthusiastic athletes she’s collected around herself over the years. At least Tater probably won’t be lured into a drinking contest with her, not in the middle of the Falcs season - Shitty really doesn’t feel like getting barfed on by someone that much taller than him tonight.

 _What is my life,_ he thinks, smiling into his pint glass. How many people in the world are sitting in a bar right now with all of their best friends, some famous pro athletes, and one person who is both?

His reverie is interrupted by someone bumping into him, hard, jostling his elbow and sloshing his beer. The guys at the next table appear to be having some kind of argument, which has escalated from shouting to some light shoving.

“Take it easy, gentlemen,” Shitty says as the dude with the beard and the backwards cap shoves the dude in the Red Sox shirt again. “There’s a beverage here.”

The two wheel on him, ruddy-faced. “What the fuck did you just say to me?” Backwards Cap demands, stepping into Shitty’s personal space.

Shitty rolls his eyes and turns away. “Nothing. By all means, continue what you were doing.”

“Hey. Cocksucker.” Red Sox shoves Shitty’s shoulder. “You got a fucking problem?”

“Nope,” Shitty says, looking straight ahead and sipping his beer.

“Oh what, suddenly you got nothing to say? You fucking pussy,” Backwards Cap spits, shoving Shitty again. “You fucking faggot.”

Shitty makes eye contact with Holster; he and Ransom are already on their feet, and Jack and Nursey are stepping back from the table as well, when a giant hand descends into Shitty’s line of sight and grabs Backwards Cap’s wrist.

“Hey,” Tater says, his voice low and his accent suddenly twice as thick. “You don’t say these things. You don’t say these things in my bar.” He steps forward, interposing his body between Shitty and his aggressors, looming over them.

“Who says this is your bar?” Red Sox folds his arms, but his voice quivers a little.

Tater looks around, throws out his arms. “Every bar is my bar.” He steps in even closer. “Who is going tell me this is not my bar?”

“N-no one,” stammers Backwards Cap.

Tater nods. “Right. Go back to your table,” he kind of herds them in that direction, “and everyone is having nice time here at my bar.” He returns to the SAMwell group, who are regarding him with stunned expressions.

Shitty refills Tater’s beer from the nearest pitcher. “Masculinity is a prison,” he tells the group. It seems to break the spell; everyone laughs, and returns to their conversations.

“That was cool, man, thanks,” Shitty says to Tater, who still looks angry. “You OK?”

“I don’t like people say these words,” Tater says. “Where I come from, people die over shit like this, people go to jail. Is fucked up.” He’s frowning down toward the other end of the table. “I don’t like people say these things, especially not in front of - “ he glances at Shitty, and seems to catch himself. “...in front of...ladies,” he finishes weakly, gesturing at Lardo, who is trying to convince Dex to arm wrestle her. “Anyway. Pitcher on me.” He heads toward the bar, pausing to glare at their would-be assailants once more.

Shitty stares thoughtfully in the direction Tater was looking. Bitty and Jack are deep in conversation; Chowder is half-asleep with his chin in his hand. _In front of whom? In front of Bitty?_ He’s surprised that Tater could pick up on Bitty’s sexuality, just from their limited interactions tonight - Bitty doesn’t exactly make a secret of being gay, but he’s pretty butched up in his Falcs jersey and jeans. Shitty wouldn’t have been able to pick Bitty out of this particular lineup as -

But no, wait, for real, how _did_ Tater know Bitty was gay? Unless Jack said -

Oh.

_Oh._

Jack leans down a bit to hear something Bitty’s saying, and laughs, his face relaxed and open and happy. _Pretty sure I just found out something I’m not supposed to know,_ Shitty thinks. Of course, with Shitty’s track record, Jack’s probably only a week or so away from coming out to him, anyway - in college, Shitty practically minored in people coming out to him.

He thinks about what he knows about Jack - the famous parents, the anxiety, the pressure of the NHL - and filters it through the lens of this new information. Conclusion: _That’s gotta suck._

Regardless of whether Jack ever comes out to him or not, Shitty resolves to give him an extra-big hug when he leaves tonight.

~*~

 **Holster:** No pie today, I hear

 **Ford:** Nope! Jam sandwich cookies

 **Nursey:** Fun fact, in the UK those are called “jammie dodgers”

 **Ford:** That fact _is_ fun!

 **Dex:** I had some of the jam on Saturday when he was here making it, it is the bomb dot com

 **Chowder:** Does it have seeds? Jam with seeds always gets stuck in my braces

 **Dex:** I think it does have seeds, sorry @Chowder

 **Holster:** I’m sure the jam is great, I just could really use some pie today

 **Ransom:** Me too

 **Lardo:** Everything OK?

 **Holster:** Johnson’s moving out

 **Lardo:** No way!

 **Ransom:** Totally without warning, too, just got up today and started packing boxes

 **Nursey:** That’s too bad, I like that guy

 **Chowder:** Did he say where he’s going?

 **Holster:** No, that’s what sucks, he just said it was “narratively important” that he not live in the Haus anymore and refused to elaborate  
like OK, we’ve been friends for 8 years, can I at least get a forwarding address or something  
it’s not the end of the world, but it was nice having a fourth person to split like utilities and groceries with

 **Dex:** I actually know someone who’s looking for a place  
I’ll DM you

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't you wish you could just carry Tater around in your pocket, and have him be big when you needed him? 
> 
> Thanks to everyone who has commented/left kudos on this fic; I am blown away that so many people are enjoying it! This chapter blends together some events from the "Home Opener" and "PB&J" episodes of Season 3 of the comic.
> 
> Thanks as always to Laurens for her super-insightful betaing (Me: Oh no I don't know any of the rules to hockey! Laurens: Oh no I don't either!), and to the bredfrens for the endless inspiration for topics of Slack conversation.
> 
> Coming next week in Chapter 7: Just, Like, So Much Angst; Halloween (Featuring Angst)
> 
> ETA: Thanks to samjohnsson and the incomparable Laurens, both of whom pointed out that my attempt at fancy formatting broke the Quebecois line. I fixed it by adding the actual character like Laurens told me I should in the first place.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What can I do for you, Barry?” Shitty’ll be goddamned if he’s calling this guy Mr. Thornton.
> 
> “I’ve been hearing some buzz about the app you’ve got over there. It sounds like you’ve been experiencing some pretty solid growth. I took a look at the app myself, good stuff, very slick.”
> 
> “Thank you.” He rubs the bridge of his nose. _What the hell does this guy want?_
> 
> “We at Explore have been looking into expanding into online tools for our customers. I hear you’re in talks with Barnstable about some Series A funding. Knight, I’ll cut straight to the chase - have you considered acquisition by a larger business as a solution to your cash flow needs?”
> 
> Shitty sits upright, his limbs going cold. “You want to buy the company?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW for this chapter: Discussion of coming out not going well, depiction of a panic attack.

When he gets to Diablo Coffee, Jack isn’t there yet. _Maybe he won’t come today_ , Bitty thinks glumly, sipping his mocha. _Maybe that’s for the best._

Bitty can’t lie to himself anymore; the emotions that welled up in him when he saw Jack get hurt aren’t easily shoved back down. A crush would be understandable - Jack is hunky enough, Bitty doubts anyone could blame him for finding him attractive - but capital-F Feelings are something else entirely.

 _It’s time to nip this in the bud,_ he tells himself severely. That means no more flirting, no more casual touches on the arm or shoulder as they talk, no more ridiculous schoolboy fantasies that Jack will lean across the table and kiss him. Bitty refuses to be the gay man his father seems so afraid of, hitting on anything in pants and making everyone uncomfortable. _If you want to stay friends with Jack,_ he lectures himself, _you have to dial this whole thing way way back._

His thoughts are interrupted by Jack thumping down into the seat across from him with a mug of green tea. “Hey,” he says, and Bitty clamps down on the wild flare of gladness that surges in him at the sight of Jack’s face. He focuses on the fresh bandage on Jack’s chin, a reminder of the entirely different world that Jack inhabits.

“How’s your chin?” he asks.

“Doing OK,” Jack replies. “It itches.”

Bitty nods. “Did they give you anything to put on it?”

“Neosporin.” Jack gives one of his eloquent French-Canadian shrugs.

“As I suspected,” Bitty grimaces. He digs the little jar out of his bag and tosses it to Jack - no chance their hands will brush, that way. _No touching._

“What’s this?” Jack opens the jar. “Smells good.”

“It’s homemade scar balm, from my mama’s recipe,” Bitty says. “Growing up, she always put that stuff on all my cuts and scrapes.”

“You made this?” Jack’s touched smile pierces Bitty’s heart. “That’s so nice, Bitty, thank you. What’s in it?”

“Oh, coconut oil, aloe, rosehip oil, some calendula. I always have some on hand,” he lies, like he didn’t call his mama up for the recipe yesterday and spend all evening making it in the office kitchen. “Put that on the cut every time you change the bandage - which should be at _least_ once a day,” he adds sternly, “and it should keep it from scarring.”

“Thanks, I will.” Jack tucks the jar in his bag. “So, I hear you’re moving in with Shitty and the guys?”

Bitty nods, grateful for the subject change. “Yeah, I move in Saturday. It’s really nice of them to let me live there. They’re probably just in it for the baked goods,” he laughs.

“Baked goods are a pretty great perk in a roommate,” Jack points out. “You’re moving on Saturday? Do you need help?”

“Oh! Um,” Bitty stammers, thinking _sweet Lord, Jack, you have to stop being so nice._ “I don’t know. All my stuff’s already packed, it’s all in storage. I’ve been staying...with some friends. So there’s not a lot to do, just load everything into Holster’s truck, drive it over to the Haus, and unload it.”

Jack nods. “Still, another pair of hands is always helpful when you’re moving.”

“Don’t you have a game on Saturday?” Bitty asks, desperately fishing for a reason for Jack to stop being so wonderful.

“Yeah, but not until the evening, so I’m free until mid-afternoon. I’ll text Holster,” he continues, pulling out his phone, “and ask him to let me know when they’re heading to the storage place on Saturday.”

“I...thanks, Jack.”

Jack’s blue eyes crinkle into another shy smile. “I’m just in it for the baked goods.”

~*~

Jack wakes up on Saturday bright and early, like he does every day. _Today’s gonna be a good day,_ he thinks. Get to see Bitty, get to hang out with his friends, then go smoke the Bruins on the ice and get home at a reasonable hour.

The other guys are clearly not early risers. By the time Holster’s text appears, Jack’s gone on a five-mile run, made and eaten an egg white omelet, showered, dressed, re-bandaged his cut with some of Bitty’s scar ointment, straightened up his apartment, and read two chapters of his book, and he's getting pretty antsy.

He arrives at the storage unit to find the crew already loading boxes into Holster’s truck. “Jack fucking Zimmermann!” Shitty yells, peering out at him from behind a stack of boxes marked _Kitchen._ “Canadian man of mystery! Grab a box.”

Bitty doesn’t have a ton of stuff (and like 75% of the boxes he does have are marked _Kitchen_ or _Cookbooks_ ), so it doesn’t take long for the five of them to load everything up. Jack keeps trying to catch Bitty’s eye, but he’s busy directing everyone (“careful with that, Ransom, that’s fragile”), and it seems like every time Jack walks out with an armful of stuff, Bitty’s headed back in for another load, or vice versa. Other than a few pleasantries here and there, he barely gets a chance to talk to Bitty, but he figures he’ll have more time back at the Haus.

Once they arrive, though, Holster enlists Jack to help him hook up Bitty’s Blu-ray player, which is newer than theirs, to the entertainment system. Bitty’s in the kitchen, squawking about how gross it is, and marshaling Ransom and Shitty to “help me scrub this place from top to bottom, if y'all expect me to be baking any pies in here.”

Jack finds himself crouched behind the entertainment center, sorting through a labyrinthine bundle of cords and cables, trying to extract the old Blu-ray player. “Sorry, dude,” Holster grimaces, “but if you don’t mind, I need to sit down for a minute.” He stretches one long leg out, resting his foot on the coffee table, wincing as his knee straightens.

“You played for the Rochester Americans, right?” Jack asks, carefully not looking at Holster. He’s not sure how sensitive a subject Holster’s short AHL career is.

Holster sighs. “Yeah. I was really lucky to sign with them, I got to see my folks a lot.”

“What happened? Shitty said you blew out your knee?”

“Yep. Caught a skate as I was going down, guy couldn’t stop, ran right into me. Tore my ACL, tore my meniscus, fractured my patella.”

Jack exhales through his teeth. He’s pretty sure he’s found the right cord, now he just needs to follow it to its source. “That must have hurt.”

“Yeah,” Holster laughs mirthlessly. “I had surgery and a bunch of PT, so I'm OK, but that was pretty much it for me, for playing. It always aches this time of year, though, something about the barometric pressure.”

“I’m sorry,” Jack says simply, finally risking a look in Holster’s direction. Holster doesn’t look sad, just tired.

“Thanks, bro. It’s really OK, I was probably only a year or two from washing out of the league, anyway, you know? Always just right on the cusp of being cut or traded. Hurting my knee sucked, but now?” he shrugs. “I have a great job, that I’m...really good at, actually. I get to go to work every day with all the people I love most in the world, outside of my family. Not looking so bad for Birkholtz over here.”

Jack finally traces the power cable from the old Blu-ray player to its end, plugged into an only-slightly-overloaded power strip, and switches it out for the new one. “Got it.”

“Sweet.” Holster turns on the TV to verify that the new player is working. “Looks like we’re all good.”

“Cool.” Jack stands and brushes off his hands. “I’m gonna go see if they need any help in the kitchen.”

“Better you than me, bro,” Holster replies, tossing him a mock salute. “Bitty is being _terrifying_.”

In the kitchen, Jack finds the diminutive tyrant kneeling on the counter, wiping down the shelves in the cabinet above. Shitty’s leaning into the fridge, tossing almost-empty condiment bottles and elderly takeout containers in the trash, while Ransom cleans out the lower level of cabinets. Bitty’s phone is on the counter next to him, blaring out some music Jack doesn’t recognize.

“Looks like you could use some help in here, eh?” says Jack. “What can I do?”

“Talk to Bitty Mussolini over there,” Shitty tells Jack, shooting Bitty a fond look.

“Hey Jack!” Bitty says, not pausing in wiping the cabinets. “If you wanted to help, that sink could use a serious scrubdown. Grab some gloves - I sprayed it with bleach when we first got here so it should be ready to scrub out.”

Jack sets to work, pausing first to open the window above the sink to let some of the bleach fumes out. The four of them chat about this and that as they work; Jack can’t help but notice that Bitty seems a little withdrawn, but maybe he’s just distracted by their cleaning task, or maybe he’s having trouble getting a word in edgewise - Shitty is in fine form today. Jack loves the guy, but he does have a tendency to monologue.

As Jack’s finishing up the sink and starting on the fronts of the cabinets, the music’s interrupted by Bitty’s phone buzzing. He grabs it and looks at it, and says “Y’all mind if I take this? It’s my mama.”

“Tell her we love her German chocolate cake recipe,” Ransom says.

Bitty smiles at him, putting the phone to his ear. “Mama? Hey!...Yeah, we got all my stuff moved over, now just have to figure out where everything goes.” He hops down from the counter and steps out into the hallway.

It’s not like they’re trying to eavesdrop, it’s just that Bitty’s just standing on the other side of the door, and without the music playing the kitchen seems oddly silent.

“Lord, Mama, you should see the state of this kitchen, I’ve got everybody hard at work getting it cleaned out...Oh, me, and Ransom and Shitty, and our friend Jack is here too...I _know_ , Mama, but _everyone_ calls him that, he _told_ me to call him that on my very first day.”

Jack exchanges a glance with Shitty, who just smirks and snags some bleach for the crisper drawer.

“I don’t think so?” Bitty says, in response to some question from the other end of the line. “Well, I will, don’t you worry about that. What are y’all up to this weekend?...You are? That sounds fun…”

A sort of a funny strain creeps into Bitty’s voice as he keeps talking; he’s as bright and cheery as ever but something sounds...off, somehow.

“Oh? Well, that’s - that’s nice of him to think of me, tell him - tell him I’ll do that. Is, um, is - is he there? I could...oh.” The brightness fades out of Bitty’s voice entirely, and he suddenly sounds very young. “Well, that’s okay, no need to bother him, I know things are - get busy this time of year...uh-huh...it’s okay, Mama, really, it’s fine. I have to go,” he continues, a veneer of cheerfulness coming back into his voice. “Lots of moving stuff to do. Uh huh...I will do...all right...I love you too.”

Jack looks around the kitchen wildly, realizing that he, Shitty, and Ransom have been cleaning in more or less total silence, listening to a conversation they probably weren’t meant to hear. He tries to think of something to say, to cover the silence, but his mind is completely blank.

Bitty wanders back into the kitchen without a word, hops back up on the counter and attacks the cabinets again; he doesn’t put the music back on, though. Ransom and Shitty exchange a troubled look.

“Everything OK?” Shitty asks hesitantly.

“Oh sure, yes, fine and dandy,” Bitty says. “Mama and Coach are going to the home show today. They love the home show. Apparently Coach said I should look into renter’s insurance,” he says, scrubbing the shelf a bit harder than seems strictly necessary. “He didn’t want to _talk_ to me, but he still wants to make sure I have _insurance_ , so I’ve got that going for me.”

Jack wants to walk over and pull Bitty off of the counter and into his arms, but he’s frozen; he has no idea what would be appropriate in this situation. Shitty, however, suffers no such compunctions, and goes over to wrap Bitty up in a hug.

“My dad’s not talking to me, either, if it makes you feel better,” Shitty says after a long moment.

Bitty gives a rueful little chuckle. “Yeah, but you _hate_ your dad.”

“True,” Shitty hops up to sit on the counter next to Bitty, rubbing his back with one hand. Ransom comes up on Bitty’s other side and leans against the counter; Jack stays where he is, but puts down his sponge and gives Bitty what he hopes is an encouraging look.

Bitty rubs his nose with the back of his wrist, trying not to touch his face with his cleaning gloves. “It’s like...I knew it would be hard, coming out to them. But like...I _seem gay!_ Don’t I? It seemed like everyone in Madison thought I was gay, no matter how hard I...” he takes a heavy breath. “But I guess my parents...didn’t.”

His hand is smoothing over a wrinkle in his jeans, over and over; he looks down at it, not at them. “Mama has been great about it, really, even though I know she wasn’t exactly thrilled by the news, but Coach...he says he just doesn’t know how to talk to me, anymore, which is...like, I’m the same person, you know?”

“That really sucks, dude, I’m sorry,” murmurs Ransom.

“Thanks, Rans.” Bitty finally gives up and takes off his cleaning gloves to wipe his eyes.

Jack hands him a paper towel. He wants to say something - anything - but he has no idea what to say right now. He thinks about his own parents - his mother’s understanding blue eyes, his father taking pains to talk to Kenny about hockey over Christmas dinner - and resolves to call them this week.

“Lord, look at me. I don’t want you guys to think…” Bitty sighs. “I just want to be clear, I’m glad that I told them. I’m glad I’m out, even if this is how it’s gonna be with them for a while. It’s still better than being afraid all the time that someone’s going to find out, lying to them all the time, lying to everybody. And I’m lucky, I know some people have it so much worse.”

“Bitty, you are a magnificent human being,” Shitty says. “Thank you for sharing that with us.” He pulls Bitty in for another hug. Ransom hugs both of them from the other side. Jack hesitates for a second, then comes over and wraps his arms around all three of them. He rests his cheek, just for a moment, on the top of Bitty’s head. It’s all he can permit himself to do.

“Thanks, y’all,” Bitty says. “Don’t think you’re getting out of cleaning this kitchen, though.”

~*~

“Good morning, everybody! We’re back in the SAMwell kitchen today; I moved in to my new place, but that kitchen is in no kinda shape for me to show it to y’all yet, trust me on that one.

“I have some questions from viewers this week! Esther asks, ‘How has it been living with your co-workers? Are you at all worried that someone will quit and things will get awkward?’

“Well, Esther, I wasn’t, but now I am! Haha no, I’m just pullin’ your leg. Honestly, maybe I should be worried about it, but I’m not! They’re a good group of guys, and I trust that if something changes about the work situation, we’re all adults enough to handle the housing situation separately.

“Katie H. asks, ‘What are your feelings about using store-bought items like premade pie crusts or puff pastry to save time?’

“Katie, if you don’t want to make your own puff pastry, I completely understand, that stuff is a pain in the patoot to deal with. I don’t think store-bought is quite as good, but if you want to go that route I won’t be mad at you.

“Store-bought pie crust, though, is another thing entirely. It’s chock full of artificial leaveners and stabilizers that will leave your crust feeling mealy and tasting off. There is no substitute for homemade pie crust, and I want all y’all to promise me you won’t go out and try to make my recipes with store-bought crust. Otherwise, I cannot be held responsible for the disappointing results!

“Speaking of pie, the mini pies we’re making this week are a great thing to bring in to the office for a treat, or take to a potluck! We’re going to be making apple cranberry, chocolate pecan, and - by popular demand - maple pumpkin!”

~*~

Shitty’s phone is ringing again; he’s having a reaction to the sound that he’s able to identify as “fight or flight.” There’s no practical way to fight a cell phone, and he’d look pretty ridiculous running away from it, so he groans and picks it up. “Hello?”

“Is this Mr. Knight’s office?”

 _Uh...this is Mr. Knight’s cell phone, so yeah?_ “This is Knight.” _Call me Shitty, Mr. Knight is an asshole - I mean, Mr. Knight is my father._

“Hi, this is Barry Thornton, I’m the CEO of Explore Athletics. Are you familiar with Explore?”

Shitty thinks about the yellow Explore Athletics logo on his backpack in college, increasingly dingy with 4 years of camping trips and road games and dusty classroom floors. “Yes I am - you’re, what, an outdoor supply company?”

“We like to think of ourselves as an athletic lifestyle company, but we do feature a lot of outdoor equipment, yes.”

Shitty rolls his eyes at the correction. “What can I do for you, Barry?” He’ll be goddamned if he’s calling this guy Mr. Thornton.

“I’ve been hearing some buzz about the app you’ve got over there. It sounds like you’ve been experiencing some pretty solid growth. I took a look at the app myself, good stuff, very slick.”

“Thank you.” He rubs the bridge of his nose. _What the hell does this guy want?_

“We at Explore have been looking into expanding into online tools for our customers. I hear you’re in talks with Barnstable about some Series A funding. Knight, I’ll cut straight to the chase - have you considered acquisition by a larger business as a solution to your cash flow needs?”

Shitty sits upright, his limbs going cold. “You want to buy the company?”

He sends a few frantic texts after the phone call ends, and an hour later, he’s walking with Jack through Waterplace Park.

“...They’d want me and Holster to stay on, at least through the first year to help with the transition, but longer if it’s working out for us and them.” The park is nice this time of day; not many tourists hanging out on a Wednesday afternoon.

“So you’d go from being the CEO to being, like…”

“I’m not even sure, I guess, like, Director of the SAMwell division?” Shitty kicks at a pile of leaves.

Jack nods, squinting in the afternoon sunlight. Shitty’s suddenly grateful that he texted Jack, that he has someone he can talk to about this right now who doesn’t work at SAMwell. Jack is a man of few words; he’s not peppering Shitty with the questions he knows Holster or Ransom would, questions he doesn’t have the answers to yet.

_Would they stay in the current office, or move to Explore’s offices? Would Shitty still have a say in what went into the app? What would happen to everyone’s jobs? Would people get laid off? Would they still be a team?_

Shitty can hear his heartbeat pounding in his ears. The day is warm, but he suddenly feels weirdly cold. He takes a deep breath and tries to distract himself by talking to Jack.

“It’s all really up in the air, you know? I mean, we just had the one conversation, it’s not like anything’s set in stone, but I think it could be a good opportunity, at the very least it’s _flattering_ , you know, that someone would want to buy our company, right? It’s cool to think about, that we built something that someone would want to buy, that’s really,” he gulps down another breath, “really neat, and, and, flattering, to think about.”

Jack stops walking and grabs Shitty’s arm, turning Shitty toward him. “Shitty?”

“Something’s - I don’t - “ Shitty mumbles. His lips feel numb; the entire lower half of his face is prickling with pins and needles. He looks at Jack and it’s like looking at him down a long, bright hallway.

“Hey,” Jack says, ushering him over to a nearby tree. “Come sit down.”

Shitty sits down underneath the tree. He tries to take a couple of deep breaths to calm himself, but it feels like he’s sucking in air with no oxygen in it. Black spots are swimming in front of his eyes.

“Shitty?” Jack says again. “Hey. Hey. Look at me.”

“I can’t breathe,” Shitty wheezes.

“I know it feels like you can’t breathe,” Jack says, calmly but firmly, “but you can breathe. You are breathing. Look at me.” Shitty looks at Jack, and Jack’s eyes are warm and kind. “You’re having a panic attack.”

“No, no I’m not, something is - _h-happening_ …” the last word seems to lose cohesion in his mouth.

“It’s OK,” Jack says. “The average panic attack lasts two minutes. That’s it. This will be over in two minutes. Can you hang with me for two minutes?”

Shitty nods, tears prickling in his eyes. “Yeah.”

“OK,” Jack says. “Lean your back up against the tree. Can you feel the tree against your back?” Shitty nods again. Jack takes his hands, and starts squeezing them, one and then the other, in an alternating rhythm. Shitty squeezes back.

“That’s good,” Jack murmurs. “OK, we’re gonna breathe together now. Breathe with me.” Jack inhales in an exaggerated way, holding eye contact; Shitty follows suit. They hold the breath for several seconds, and then exhale for what seems to Shitty to be a long time, longer than he would have thought possible. Again. And again. The dark spots are clearing up from Shitty’s vision, but he still feels shaky. He closes his eyes and shivers.

“Now,” says Jack, “I want you to look around you and tell me the names of the colors you can see.” Shitty opens his eyes and gives him an incredulous look; Jack smiles. “Just trust me, bro.”

“Um…” Shitty looks around; he sees trees, and water. “Green. Brown. Blue.” Clouds in the sky. A boat on the river. “White. Orange.” A lamppost. The brick walkway. “Black. Red.” He keeps naming colors, and the terror gripping his chest slowly eases. He leans his head back against the tree, closing his eyes again, feeling sick and exhausted.

Jack releases his grip on Shitty’s hands. “Better?”

Shitty nods. A tear seeps through his eyelids. “Thanks.”

“No problem. Happens to me all the time.”

“I’m sorry. I just...”

“Don’t worry about it.” Jack’s voice is firm. “Can you stand up?”

“Yeah.” Shitty takes Jack’s proffered hand and pulls himself up to stand on shaking legs.

“All right.” Jack is still speaking in that firm, commanding tone. Shitty has a passing thought that this must be what he sounds like on the ice; no wonder he made captain so young. “We’re going to walk over to that snack cart and get you some water, and then I’m going to drive you home and you’re going to take a nap. You don’t need to go back to work,” he says, holding up a hand when Shitty attempts to interrupt him. “I’ll text Holster and let him know you weren’t feeling well and went home.”

Shitty smiles, weakly. “Yes, Coach.”

~*~

 **Ford:** I think I’d go Evans, Hemsworth, Pine, Pratt

 **Nursey:** Oh wow, mine is totally different, I’d go Pine, Pratt, Hemsworth, Evans

 **Holster:** I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone rank Pine first before

 **Nursey:** I just watched Hell Or High Water and he’s so good in that

 **Dex:** Mine is Pratt, Pine, Evans, Hemsworth

 **Ford:** I just really love Captain America

 **Dex:** Captain America is no Captain Kirk

 **Lardo:** Hey @channel  
they’re going to be showing some of my art at SMR Galleries next month  
If you’re not busy on November 12, you should come to the opening  
there’s gonna be like wine and crackers and whatever

 **Ford:** That’s so cool, @Lardo! Congratulations!

 **Lardo:** thanks

 **Nursey:** is that where the yellow piece from the reception area went?

 **Lardo:** yeah, sorry, I keep meaning to bring something in to replace it

 **Shitty:** Don’t even worry about that, that’s so awesome bro! Our Lardo, a mover and shaker in the Art World

 **Lardo:** lol thanks

 **Bitty:** We should look at what the gallery’s doing to promote the show, see if we can get some social media buzz going

 **Nursey:** Totally, make sure the local art press knows about it, maybe do some fliers

 **Lardo:** it’s really not that big of a deal, they had an artist drop out and needed something to fill the space, I know the gallery owner so he asked me

 **Bitty:** What is the point of all this phenomenal marketing talent if you don’t put it to use?

 **Lardo:** Let’s put it to use promoting this app we all supposedly work on

 **Ransom:** /giphy business numbers

 **Lardo:** Precisely

~*~

Halloween night finds Jack in a hotel room in Chicago, after a hard-fought loss to the Blackhawks. A bunch of the younger guys from the team are going to a costume party at a bar close to the hotel, but Jack declined. Halloween isn’t a great night to be at a bar when you don’t drink much; he doesn’t feel like watching his teammates grind up on some scantily-clad witches and kittens while he sips his one beer in the corner.

Scrolling through his Instagram feed is making him feel increasingly sorry for himself, but he can’t make himself stop. Ransom and Holster are throwing what appears to be a rager of a Halloween party at the Haus; he scrolls through pictures of Lardo wielding a beer pong paddle, and Shitty presiding over a giant cooler full of some lethal-looking green liquid. There’s one picture, though, that he keeps returning to again and again.

Ransom and Holster are dressed in shiny jumpsuits, with goggles; Jack guesses they’re meant to be some kind of superheroes, but he doesn’t get the reference. That’s not what grabs his attention, though.

In Holster’s arms, carried bridal-style, is the cutest little bunny Jack’s ever seen. Bitty’s floppy ears fall past his face endearingly, but the costume leaves his slender, toned arms bare; beneath his fluffy tail, his shorts reveal a heartstopping expanse of thigh. Jack imagines running his hands along the fine golden hair on Bitty’s legs and has to close his eyes. He starts to scroll away, but keeps coming back. Bitty is open-mouthed, laughing, free - so completely _himself_ it makes Jack ache.

Moving day solidified one thing for Jack: he can’t be with Bitty. He knew that already, knew that from the start, but a part of him had still clung to the fantasy that he could somehow make it work, and he’s been having so much fun with Bitty he’s been able to push the rest aside. Look at Bitty, though. He’s unapologetically who he is, and now Jack knows exactly what it’s cost Bitty to be that way. _It’s still better than being afraid all the time that someone’s going to find out, lying to them all the time, lying to everybody,_ Bitty had said. Jack knows all too well how that feels. Jack’s not going to drag Bitty back into the closet, not when Bitty’s fought so hard to be out of it, not when Jack has no intention of becoming the first out player in the NHL.

He tosses his phone aside, feeling restless and horny and sour. It’s Halloween - he could find a mask somewhere, go to a gay bar, find some skinny little blond and press him up against a wall. The odds of that ending up on SportsCenter or TMZ would be relatively low, but the idea of random hookups has never appealed much to Jack; the occasional fumbling, anonymous encounter he’s allowed himself over the years usually makes him feel worse, not better.

 _That’s all you get, though,_ he tells himself. _It’s not like you could be in a_ relationship, _not without everyone finding out._

Helplessly, like a moth to a flame, he picks up his phone again. _That’s all you get._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry y'all *hides* I swear I didn't intend for all the angst to hit in the same chapter, that's just where everyone's at right now. I promise things will start looking up for our friends soon.
> 
> Thanks as always to Laurens for beta-ing!
> 
> The picture Jack is looking at is, of course, [this one](http://omgcheckplease.tumblr.com/post/133574802822).
> 
> Coming next week in Chapter 8: Art Show; Hausgiving! (Warning in advance: chapter 8 is going to be, by far, the longest chapter. #sorrynotsorry)


	8. Chapter 8

Within a week, Bitty feels like he’s been living at the Haus forever. It’s nice, having housemates: having people to hang out with, ride to work with, bake for.

He quickly learns that Shitty is basically allergic to clothes when off the clock. The boxers or track pants Shitty wears around the Haus appear to be the outcome of a protracted battle with Ransom and Holster over where, exactly, Shitty is and is not allowed to sit his naked ass. Bitty gains a new appreciation for the Herculean effort it must take Shitty to get dressed every day; his sigh of relief as he strips off his polo shirts at the end of the day is that of a man setting down a heavy burden.

Bitty’s so used to Holster and Ransom’s constant chatter in the office, he’s been surprised to learn that separately, they’re both pretty quiet. When Ransom’s not around, Holster often has headphones in; he likes to kind of wander from room to room, bopping vaguely to whatever he’s listening to, and straighten up as he goes. Bitty’s starting to learn that if he leaves Holster alone for long enough while he’s wander-cleaning, things will end up relatively tidy.

When Holster’s not around, Ransom spends a lot of time reading; even when they’re all hanging out together, more often than not Ransom has a book or a journal. Bitty’s pretty used to keeping up a steady stream of chit-chat, but he’s surprised by how easy it is to just be companionably quiet when it’s just him and Ransom at home.

Frequently, when Bitty comes into the living room, he’s greeted by the sight of the two of them sprawled out on the couch, Holster playing Skyrim, Ransom reading a book with his feet in Holster’s lap. He’s never been that close to another person: finishing each other’s sentences, more or less constantly touching, staying up late talking even though they saw each other all day at work. Bitty’s not sure he’d want to be sharing bunk beds with his bestie by age 25, but it would be nice to _have_ a bestie like that.

The rest of the SAMwell team is in and out of the Haus more or less constantly: watching hockey and football, playing board games, binge-watching TV shows (Holster and Ford are midway through _Gilmore Girls_ , and spend a lot of time yelling “white privilege!” at the TV). Lardo’s basically taken up residence in the garage to prepare for her art show; Shitty spends most evenings out there helping her assemble sculptures and stretch canvases.

Bitty complains about the moldy old washer and dryer in the basement so many times that, one Saturday morning, Dex shows up on the porch with a toolbox. They push past Bitty, muttering about belts and heating elements and drum support rollers, and clomp down to the basement, emerging an hour later just as Bitty’s pulling his pear and hazelnut clafoutis out of the oven. It turns out that a Dex who’s gotten their hands in some machinery and then eaten some breakfast dessert is a very happy Dex - and if it means Bitty’s socks aren’t damp when he takes them out of the dryer anymore, so much the better.

A week after their epic Halloween party (Bitty now knows to lock his bedroom door when the Haus has a party; getting someone else’s vomit out of his duvet cover was _challenging_ ), the four of them are watching _The Daily Show_ before bed when Bitty sees Holster and Shitty exchange a meaningful glance during a commercial break.

“So, Bitty,” Shitty says with exaggerated casualness, “are you going back to Georgia for Thanksgiving?”

Bitty makes a face. “I don’t know. Probably not.”

His mama really wants him to come back to Madison for Thanksgiving; his Aunt Judy and all his cousins will be there, and he hasn’t been back since Christmas of last year. He’s not eager to grit his teeth through another holiday, though. Plus, after the blow-up fight he and Coach had before he left at New Year’s, Bitty’s not sure how welcome he’ll really be, regardless of Suzanne’s assurances to the contrary (“My _son_ ,” she’d said with steel in her voice when he asked her about it, “is _always_ welcome in my home.” He gets the feeling she’s said the same thing to Coach, which is nice, but doesn’t make him feel _super_ confident that his dad will be cool).

Shitty’s green eyes gleam with excitement. “Because, we were thinking about doing a Thanksgiving dinner here.”

“Really?” he turns to Ransom and Holster. “Y’all aren’t going home for Thanksgiving?”

Holster shrugs. “My parents are going on a cruise this year.”

“And I already went home, for actual Thanksgiving,” Ransom adds.

“Oh, in what world is Canadian Thanksgiving ‘actual’ Thanksgiving?” Holster protests.

“The world where October makes way more sense as a time to have a harvest festival, as opposed to late November when everything’s gross.“

“ _Anyway_ ,” Shitty interjects, rolling his eyes, “you may not know this about me but I have always,” he puts his hand over his heart, “ _always_ wanted to deep-fry a turkey, and this seems like the perfect opportunity.”

“Oh Lord, y’all are going to burn the Haus down, aren’t you?”

“Absolutely not,” Shitty vows, at the same time that Holster is saying, “It’s entirely possible.”

“Well.” Bitty sits up, his mind starting to race. “Clearly y’all are going to need my help. We could do roasted brussels sprouts, and maybe a nice fall salad with some dried cranberries? And stuffing - do y’all like bread stuffing or cornbread stuffing? - I guess we could do both, and mashed potatoes and gravy of course, and I’ll want to do some Parker House rolls, and of course there’s pie…”

“Pie!” Ransom exclaims. “Yes, pie, it’s not Thanksgiving without pumpkin pie.”

Bitty nods. “I was thinking I could do a pecan pie, too.”

“Not apple?” Holster asks, doing Big Sad Puppy Eyes. “My family always does one apple, and one pumpkin.”

“Your apple pie is _really_ good, Bits,” Shitty points out.

“So, pumpkin, pecan, and apple? Three pies for four people?”

“Excellent ratio,” Ransom grins.

“Five people,” says Shitty. “Lardo will probably come, too.”

“OK great, maybe I should make four pies, then.” Bitty is taking notes on his phone.

Holster leans back on the couch with a beatific smile. “Best. Housemate. Ever.”

~*~

At 1 am, it feels like Shitty and Lardo are the only people left in the world. The sound of Yo La Tengo drifts dreamily through the garage; the two of them are awkwardly crouched around a large, vaguely equine sculpture, hot-gluing rhinestones to it.

Lardo yawns. “It’s getting late, you don’t have to keep helping me, you should get some sleep.”

“I’m pretty sure the CEO will let me come in a little late tomorrow if I need to,” Shitty says with a wink, “and I have a feeling he’d understand if you did, as well.”

She shakes her head. “I don’t want to abuse your friendship. It’s my job, I should show up on time - prepping for my stupid art show isn’t a good excuse.”

Pressing a new stick of glue into his glue gun, Shitty steals a glance at her. Her side shave is getting a little fuzzy, her cuticles are cracked and bleeding, and there are deep shadows under her eyes: she’s been working around the clock to get ready for the show while still running the Growth team at SAMwell, and it shows. Her face, though, is soft, focused, thoughtful; it’s the look she only gets when she’s doing art, and it sends something sweet and rich flowing through him like chocolate syrup.

“Your art show isn’t stupid,” he says gently, “and I disagree that it’s not a good excuse. The whole point of starting our own company was so that we could work at the kind of place we want to work at, and have the kind of lives we want to have, right? I want to work at a place that cuts people some slack when they have big things going on in their personal lives, and this definitely counts at that.”

Lardo gives him a sweet, sleepy smile. “Thanks, bro.” She bends back over the panel she’s bedazzling. “So, how are you and Holster doing with the financing stuff? Any more word from Explore?”

“Not really,” he sighs. Since his meltdown in the park, he’s been trying to disengage a bit, mentally, from the prospect of selling SAMwell. “We can’t really figure out what to do there. Everyone seemed really freaked out, when we told them about it.”

“Well, yeah,” says Lardo, “I can’t speak for everybody, but my first thought is, do they really need some chick with an art degree and two years of business experience running marketing? Probably not.”

“You kick ass at marketing! Our numbers are through the roof. The guys at Barnstable love you, they love your whole Growth plan.” Shitty stretches out his hand, which is starting to cramp up. “This glue gun is making my hand The Claw.”

“Oh no, The Claw, I’m scared of The Claw,” Lardo says, fully deadpan. “And they better love my plan, we worked hard enough on it.”

“Holster and I already talked about it…” Shitty drops a rhinestone. “Get back here, you little fucker. We talked about it, and we’re not going to take any deal that means SAMwell can’t be SAMwell anymore. If Explore wants us to lay off a bunch of our people, that’s a dealbreaker.”

“Yeah, but like, some things are going to change, right? Like, nobody’s just going to hand you a wad of cash and be like ‘Here ya go, carry on, no further questions.’”

“No, yeah, totally,” he agrees. “We’ll just need to be clear to ourselves and to them about what we are and are not willing to change.”

Lardo smirks. “They better not mess with beer night.”

“They can have beer night,” Shitty declares, “when they pry it from my cold, dead hands.”

~*~

When Jack gets home from the airport, he texts Bitty, _Coffee tomorrow?_ Bitty’s been coming to coffee less, now that he’s carpooling to work with his housemates; between that and Jack’s road game schedule, it’s been a week or so since they’ve managed to catch up.

There’s no reason, Jack tells himself, that he should stop having coffee with Bitty. He’s not so rich in friends that he can afford to just cut someone off, and anyway, that would really hurt Bitty’s feelings, especially since he can’t give a reason - he’s not going to tell him, _I think I’m falling in love with you and it’s making me miserable._

Bitty has become one of his closest friends, and if Jack really admires the way Bitty is so sweet while being so tough, or if Bitty’s open-hearted grin makes it impossible for Jack not to smile back, or if the thought of anyone hurting Bitty makes Jack feel a wave of irrational anger and protectiveness, well, that is what friends do for each other, right? Everything else will fade, given time.

His phone buzzes. _I can’t tomorrow :-( early meeting. Monday?_

Monday, Jack’s supposed to meet with the coaching staff before practice; Tuesday, he knows, Bitty gets a ride from Ransom and usually gets downtown too late to meet for coffee. He texts back, _How about Wednesday?_

_Shoot! I’m supposed to go in early on Wednesday to meet with Lardo so she can leave early to go set up at the gallery. See you at Lardo’s thing on Thursday?_

Jack tries to ignore the disappointment settling in his stomach. _See you then,_ he texts back.

It’s totally normal to go a week or more without seeing your friends. Besides, Thirdy, Marty, and Guy have started letting him eat breakfast with them in the mornings, so it’s not like he’ll be starved for breakfast or companionship. But it’s not the same.

With Kenny he always felt like he was dying, like he was burying himself in Kenny’s hair and skin, the warmth of his body, to stop the constant noise that surrounded them both, even if just for a minute or an hour. This isn’t like that. He’s never had this, to be happy when someone’s there, and sorry when they leave, to think of them throughout the day and smile, to save up stories and jokes and moments from his day to lay before them like a cat with a dead mouse. He’s been sitting in this apartment by himself every night for years, and this is the first time he’s really felt alone.

He takes his duffel bag into his bedroom and starts sorting out his laundry, shaking his head at how far he’s let himself fall. _I’m so screwed._

~*~

After work on Thursday, Bitty walks over to the gallery with some of his co-workers. Shitty went down early with Lardo to help finish setting up, and Ransom’s driving over with Holster so he doesn’t have to come back for his car afterwards, but the rest of the team heads over together.

It’s been fun seeing everyone in their dressed-up art gallery clothes (especially Dex and Holster, who are both about 1000% more dressed up than Bitty’s ever seen them). Bitty’s been posting pictures and Snaps to the team’s social accounts all day with hashtags like #artparty and #fancypants, along with links to the gallery’s events page.

“I’ve never been to an art gallery before!” Chowder exclaims as they leave the office. “Will there be a lot of fancy art people there?”

“Some,” Nursey says, “but mostly it’ll be pretty chill. You just look at the art, drink some wine, wander around.”

“If you don’t understand a piece, try calling it ‘fascinating’ or ‘challenging,’” Ford suggests. “Oh and pro tip, a ton of people don’t read the artist’s statements. It’s amazing how smart you can sound by just reading what the artist said about their own work.”

“I hope there are snacks,” Dex says, tugging at their bolo tie.

“There will be! I baked some gougéres and some mini tomato tarts, and the gallery’s doing like a fruit and cheese platter,” Bitty says. He wasn’t about to let Lardo’s big event fall flat because of a mundane offering like a fruit and cheese platter.

Dex falls into step beside Bitty. “Hey,” they say in a lowered voice, “has Shitty or Holster said anything more to you about selling the company?”

“What? No,” he replies, startled. “Just what he said in the team meeting the other day, that they’d had some interest but weren’t sure they were gonna go for it.”

“I bet they sell it,” Dex mutters glumly. “Why wouldn’t they, they’d probably make way more money that way.”

“I guess so,” Bitty says. He hadn’t really thought about it. “I know they want to make sure company culture doesn’t get messed up, and that everyone keeps their jobs.”

“My friend worked at an app that got acquired, and the company that bought them said everyone could keep their jobs, but guess how many of those people still work there a year later? Zero.” Dex kicks at a rock. “Companies always say shit like that before the sale, it doesn’t mean it’ll happen that way.”

Bitty realizes that the rest of the group has fallen silent, listening to them. “I’m sure Shitty and Holster won’t let that happen.”

“But like, isn’t that _why_ people found startups?” Nursey asks. “To sell them and make a bunch of money? Isn’t that the point?”

“I don’t think that’s the point of SAMwell,” Chowder says loyally.

“I don’t either,” Ford says, but her voice is quiet.

Dex pulls their jacket closer around them. “I mean, I’m a full-stack developer, I’m not worried about finding another job, I just wish we knew what was happening.”

“I don’t want another job,” says Chowder, his eyes big and mournful in the streetlight. “I like _this_ job.”

“Me too,” murmurs Bitty.

The rest of the walk to the gallery is spent mostly in pensive silence; by the time they arrive, Bitty’s worked himself halfway into a tizzy. What if Shitty and Holster do sell the company? Explore probably has actual social media people, who like, went to school for this stuff. What if he gets laid off? Will they still be friends, if they don’t work together anymore? Will the guys still want him to _live_ with them, for Pete’s sake? What is he going to do, with no job, no friends, and no place to live?

 _You’re being silly, Eric,_ he lectures himself. _Shitty and them are not going to just kick you out on the street._

_But what’s going to happen?_

The gallery is crowded, without being unpleasantly packed - two other artists have work in the exhibition alongside Lardo’s, and the space is dotted with clusters of friends, family, and patrons of the arts. Dex and Chowder make a beeline for the snack table; Nursey sees someone he knows, and peels off to talk to them. Bitty and Ford start wandering around, looking at the art.

Ford proves pretty knowledgeable about art, and is rattling on about conceptions of the self and use of color and negative space. Bitty’s seen most of Lardo’s works in progress, but the finished products have a heft and gravitas that they were lacking while strewn around the garage. He stands in front of one painting for a long time; it makes him feel wistful and nostalgic for his childhood for reasons he can’t quite describe. Ford falls silent beside him, taking it in.

“Is it just me,” he asks her, “or is Lardo really good?”

“She’s _really_ good,” Ford says reverently. “Look, this one’s already sold.” She points to a red sticker on the card next to the painting.

“Oh, I’m so glad, she deserves it,” Bitty says, his previous anxious mood all but forgotten in a wash of happiness for his friend.

“Hey, there’s Ransom,” Ford points, and Bitty spots a familiar shiny brown head in the corner of the room.

“Let’s go say hi,” Bitty says, already starting to move in that direction.

“I need a glass of wine,” Ford says. “Why don’t I grab us both one, and I’ll meet you over there?”

Ransom gives him a fist bump when he walks over. “Hey! Is everybody else here?”

“Yeah, they’re…” Bitty gestures vaguely to the crowded room. “...around.”

“Those tomato tarts turned out excellent,” Ransom says, “I’ve already had like three.”

“There’s more at home,” Bitty replies absently. He gathers up his courage. “Hey Rans?”

“What’s up, bud?”

Bitty draws him further into the corner, away from the crowd a little bit. “If I didn’t work with y’all anymore, would you still want me to live in the Haus?”

Ransom’s brows draw together in concern. “Are you thinking about leaving SAMwell? Because if you’re unhappy, I know Lardo would - “

“No, no no no, nothing like that, I’m very happy,” Bitty says quickly. “But with Shitty and Holster maybe selling the company, I just wondered…”

“Nothing’s going to happen to your job,” Ransom interjects. “We would never let that happen.”

“No offense, Rans, but there’s no way you can know that, not for sure. I just wanna know...would y’all still want me to live with you?”

“Dude.” Ransom touches his shoulder. “Yes. Okay?” Bitty doesn’t feel convinced; this must show in his face, because Ransom’s posture slumps a little. “Look.” He starts scanning the room, and Bitty realizes he’s looking for Holster. “When Holster got hurt, I...I wasn’t there. I wasn’t even in the state. My best friend had his whole world crash down on him, and I couldn’t even be there to pick up the pieces, I was doing fucking clinic rotations a thousand miles away.

“That changed everything for me, man. Like, fuck being a doctor, fuck being my parents’ perfect Nigerian son, I want to be close to the people I love most in the world. You’re asking me what I would choose between career and friendship? I’d say I have a pretty clear track record in that department, bro.” He puts an arm around Bitty’s shoulders. “Whatever else happens, you’re one of us now, Bitty, and we’re not letting you get away that easy. Okay?”

Bitty swallows and leans into Ransom's hug. “Okay.”

~*~

The opening is well underway by the time Jack gets there; the wine is flowing freely and the crowd is getting a little loose and a little noisy. He takes a moment to center himself - _feel the jacket touching your shoulders. Feel your feet touching the ground. Breathe in for five. Hold for four. Out for ten_ \- and heads in, gritting his teeth like he’s storming the beach at Normandy.

Looking around the room, he sees a cluster of people gathered around a tiny Asian woman in a black cocktail dress. She tilts her head toward someone to hear what they’re saying, and he realizes it’s Lardo; he’s never seen her wearing a dress, or makeup, or such a polite expression. Examining the people around her more closely, he sees that the guy with the ponytail and the blue blazer standing next to her is Shitty.

Relieved, Jack starts to make his way over to them. As he fights through the crowd, he sees Shitty bend down to say something in Lardo’s ear. She throws her head back, laughing, her eyes sparkling, suddenly looking like herself again, and of course that’s Lardo, who else could it be?

“Jack Zimmermann!” Shitty exclaims as Jack walks up, managing to avoid both shouting and swearing in this highly decorous environment.

“Hi Jack,” Lardo says, standing on tiptoe to kiss his cheek in a self-conscious ‘Art World’ gesture. “Thanks for coming.”

“Good turnout, eh?” Jack says, indicating the crowd with a shrug of his shoulders.

“Yeah! Of course, most of these people are here to see Sawyer and Denise’s work, I’m just a last-minute substitution,” Lardo explains.

Shitty elbows her in the ribs. “She says that, but go ahead and count the ‘Sold’ stickers and see who’s laughing now.”

“I like this...horse...thing,” Jack says, gesturing to a nearby sculpture.

“Thanks, shoutout to Shits for helping me bedazzle it at 4 in the morning.”

Shitty twinkles at her. “That’s what bros are for! Just call me your...brodazzler.”

“OK, dork.”

An older, balding gentleman in a brown tweed coat approaches them. “Larissa! I’ve got some people who want to meet you.”

Lardo gives them a wry look. “BRB, gotta go schmooze.”

Shitty stares after her for a long moment, long enough that Jack finally has to nudge him. “Dude.”

“What?”

Jack shakes his head. “Nothing.” Far be it for him to give anybody shit for a crush. “How are you doing?”

Shitty reaches up to run a hand through his hair, seems to remember at the last second that it’s tied back, and just kind of pats it instead. “Doing OK. Better than...the other day. We’re getting more information about the offer, which makes it seem less, you know, enormous. How’re you?”

“Good.”

“Whoa there, tiger, don’t bowl me over with information or anything.”

Jack grins. “Sorry.”

“Hey, I’ve been meaning to ask you,” Shitty says. “What are you doing for Thanksgiving? American Thanksgiving, I mean.”

“Nothing,” Jack shrugs. “We have games that Wednesday and Friday, so just sticking around here.”

“Then you should definitely - Bitty!” Shitty interrupts himself mid-sentence, waving over Jack’s shoulder. “Hey, how are you enjoying the show?”

Jack turns to see Bitty heading their way. Whereas most of the rest of the SAMwell crew looks a bit rumpled - Jack’s pretty sure he’s spotted Chowder in the crowd, wearing a blazer over a Sharks hoodie - Bitty’s nattily dressed in a tailored jacket and a jaunty red bow tie, not a hair out of place in his strawberry-blond coif. Someone Bitty’s size could look childish in a bow tie, but the cut of Bitty’s jacket accents his narrow waist, his lean shoulders. Jack schools his face into a neutral expression as Bitty approaches.

When Bitty sees that Shitty’s talking to Jack, his step falters, just for a moment, so slightly Jack’s half-sure he imagined it. “Hey! Yes I am enjoying the show, my goodness, I’m just so proud of Lardo,” Bitty says in a rush.

He turns to Jack with a smile that’s light years away from his usual grin - it’s shy, hesitant, and it cracks Jack wide open, loosing something new and raw and delicate in him. “Hi, Jack,” he says softly.

“Hi,” Jack says back.

“Oh!” Shitty says. “So what I was about to say was, we’re doing Thanksgiving at the Haus, and if you’re not doing anything, you should totally come!” Shitty snags a glass of wine off of a passing tray. “Right, Bitty?”

“Oh!” Bitty’s eyes are wide and startled. “Well, sure, of course, you can’t spend Thanksgiving by yourself! You should definitely come.”

“Thanks, but I don’t want to intrude if you guys are doing, like, a Haus thing.”

“Nonsense!” Bitty declares, sounding more Southern than ever. “You are more than welcome. I’m sure we can get a plate together for you with some white meat and some salad and only the teeeensiest bit of my homemade turkey gravy, so the team nutritionist doesn’t yell at you.”

“Chowder built a Thanksgiving nutrition calculator that we’re putting on the blog next week,” Shitty chimes in. “You could figure it out ahead of time.”

“And don’t think I’ve forgotten how much you like my pecan pie,” Bitty drawls. His smile is warmer now, almost intimate. He reaches out as if to touch Jack’s arm, but stops at the last minute and picks some lint off of Jack’s sleeve instead. His smile flickers out and is replaced with one that’s more distant, more polite. _Is something wrong?_ Jack wonders.

“See?” Shitty is saying. “There’s gonna be turkey, there’s gonna be pie, there’s gonna be the best of bros, it will be a feast beyond reckoning.”

“Euh, OK,” Jack says. “Thanks, that’s nice of you guys.”

“Wonderful!” Bitty says. “Now, if y’all will excuse me, I still haven’t seen Lardo yet and I have _got_ to congratulate her!”

Now it’s Jack’s turn to stare after someone as they walk away. Bitty seemed weird, maybe even uncomfortable around him. _What’s going on with him?_ Jack racks his brain, thinking about their last few interactions.

_Did I do something wrong?_

~*~

 **Ransom** : What is this pie

 **Chowder:** I don’t know! It’s really good though

 **Ransom:** But like  
what is it

 **Ford:** I like the crunchy sugar top

 **Holster:** It’s lemony, but it’s not, like, lemon pie

 **Ransom:** @Bitty what is this pie

_Bitty joined #piewatch by invitation from Ransom._

**Bitty:** What is this channel?

 **Holster:** It’s the pie watch channel, it’s the channel where we watch your pies, now explain this pie

 **Nursey** : Explain this pie please, we say please

 **Holster** : Right sorry explain this pie please

 **Bitty:** It’s lemon chess pie!

 **Ransom:** Is that  
is that the whole explanation

 **Bitty:** It’s like, a lemony custard pie

 **Dex:** What about it is “chess” though

 **Bitty:** I don’t know! That’s just what it’s called. Y’all have never heard of lemon chess pie?

 **Ford:** It’s really good @Bitty!

 **Bitty** : Thank you!  
So...how long have you all had this secret pie channel?

_You have been removed from the #piewatch private channel._

~*~

Shitty’s just wrapping up work for the evening when Lardo pokes her head in his office. “Is this a bad time?” she asks.

“Not at all,” he says. “Come on in, pull up a chair.”

She sits across from him, perched on the edge of the seat instead of lounging back like she usually does. She bites the edge of her fingernail.

“What’s up?” he asks, thinking _please don’t be bad news about the projections._ They just sent their latest round of numbers to Barnstable Capital Partners, and the last thing Shitty wants is to go back to them with his hat in his hand and tell them the numbers aren’t accurate.

“Um,” says Lardo. “So, I sold a bunch of paintings and stuff at the gallery.”

“Oh cool!”

“Yeah, thanks - the opening went really well, and a few more have sold since then. Michael wants to plan another show, for this summer.”

“That’s awesome, bro!” Shitty exclaims. “You should definitely do it, we’ll figure out your work schedule so it’s not quite as hectic as it was this time around.”

Lardo fidgets in her chair. “That’s the thing. Um...I’ve been saving for a while, and with the money from the show, it’s enough to live on for at least a few months. More, if I’m careful. So...” she squares her shoulders. “I’ve decided to give being a full-time artist a try.”

Shitty’s stomach drops. “What are you saying?”

“We’re closed the last week of the year, so I was thinking I could work to get everything wrapped up and transitioned before then. So my last day would be December 23rd, if that...works for you,” she trails off, looking awkward.

He blinks. “You can’t quit. We need you.” _I need you_.

“It’ll be OK!” She leans forward, her face eager. “I’ve been training the team in what I do for months. Nurse is a born growth marketer, Bitty’s got a great hold on our messaging strategy, and Ford’s really coming into her own on design and branding - if you promoted her, you’d just need to find a new Office Manager -”

Shitty holds up a hand; his mind is racing, and Lardo’s mile-a-minute planning isn’t helping. “Hang on. I need to get my head around this.”

She deflates a little. “I’m sorry, I know this is a lot to take in, but...Shitty.” Her smile is like a peace offering, a gift held out for him to take. “ _I’m doing it._ I’m finally doing it, I’m going to be an artist!”

 _Fuck_. What is this going to do to the valuation? They’ve already sent information on the management team to Barnstable and to Explore; Lardo’s Growth plan is a huge part of the case they’re making, and it’s not going to work without Lardo. This could tank the whole deal. He should be happy for her, but he digs deep in himself and can’t find it; there’s nothing but a maelstrom of stress and hurt and anger. “Lardo, you know this is really crappy timing, right?”

Her wounded expression hits him like a slap, but that just makes him feel angrier - she _should_ feel bad, doesn’t she get how this is totally fucking him over? He can feel the panic creeping up his sides, and shoves it back down.

“I know it’s not the best timing,” she says carefully, “but I thought with this much advance notice, we could get a plan together -”

“ _We?_ You mean _I_ could get a plan together, since _you_ don’t want to be a part of this anymore.”

“Shitty, that’s not fair.”

It’s not, and he knows it, but if he lets himself feel bad now, he’s going to completely lose it; he’s clinging to his anger like a lifeline. “What’s _not fair_ is that you’re willing to completely fuck me over - me, and Holster and Ransom, everything we’ve built here together, because, what, you want to go play artist? You know how integral you are to us getting this funding. What, you have one little taste of success, and the rest of us can go fuck ourselves?” He realizes he’s standing; he’s not sure when that happened.

Lardo jumps up. “What the _fuck_ , Shitty? I’ve given a _ton_ to this company, just because I want to pursue my art doesn’t mean I don’t care about it! Why the fuck else do you think I’m giving you _five weeks’ notice_?” She makes a visible effort to calm herself, and lowers her voice. “You’ve always known I wanted to be a professional artist. I’ve never kept that a secret from you. I’ve never pretended that I’m in love with marketing. That doesn’t mean I don’t care about you, or about the team. This is just...something I need to do.”

 _How am I supposed to do this without you?_ he wants to ask her. _How can you leave me right now, when I’m barely hanging on?_ He flops back down in his chair, not looking at her, trying to get his breathing under control. “Fine. If that’s what you want to do, I obviously can’t stop you. I never figured you for a quitter, Lardo.”

The room is dead silent for a moment. When she speaks again, it’s with a low, icy calm; he’s heard it in her voice before, but never directed at him. “You clearly need some time to process this. I’m going home. We can discuss this more tomorrow.”

He lets his own voice drop into CEO Mode. “I’d prefer you kept this to yourself, for now. I’d like a chance to discuss with Holster before we tell the team.”

She gives a curt nod, starts to leave, then turns back to him, her hands clenched into fists. “For fuck’s sake, Shitty, I thought you of all people would be happy that I wouldn’t be working for you anymore.”

“ _What?!?_ Why would I be happy about that?”

She raises an eyebrow, icily calm once more. “I don’t know, Shitty. Why would you?”

The door doesn’t exactly slam behind her, but she closes it firmly. Shitty drives his hands into his hair, making fists in it at the back of his head. He knows that as soon as he lets himself think about this at all, he’s going to feel like an asshole.

~*~

“Good morning, everybody, and happy Thanksgiving week! We are getting so excited to have Thanksgiving here at the Haus. As you can see behind me, I’ve already started my prep!

“Since we’ve got representatives from both the North and South coming to dinner, I’m making a traditional bread stuffing, as well as a pan of MooMaw’s famous cornbread dressing! I’ve already got my bread cubes drying out in the fridge - you need your bread to be a little stale before you start, so your stuffing doesn’t totally fall apart.

“Now, the key to the perfect homemade bread stuffing is homemade turkey stock! You don’t have to wait until Thanksgiving day to make your stock - it’s exactly the kind of thing you want to make ahead of time, so you’re not taking up another pot or burner on the day of. A lot of people think they have to make the stock day of, because they’re using the parts of their centerpiece bird, but I’ll let y’all in on a little secret: just pick up some extra parts when you’re at the meat counter, and you can make the stock in advance. I picked up a turkey neck and some wings to flavor my stock, which will go in my stuffing and my homemade turkey gravy.

“Of course, y’all know I’m not doing Thanksgiving without a whole mess of pies! I’m doing four pies this year. Y’all already know my recipes for pecan, pumpkin, and maple sugar apple pie - I’ll link them in the episode description, too. Since one of our friends who will be joining us for dinner is from Quebec, I’m also making a traditional _tarte au sucre_ \- which just translates to sugar pie!

“I had never made this one before, but it’s ridiculously simple - I know once y’all try it, it’s gonna be one of your go-tos! To start, we’re going to want to cream together half a stick of room temperature butter with 2 cups of brown sugar…”

~*~

Jack’s not sure what to wear to Thanksgiving dinner at the Haus. He knows Shitty will probably view the entire affair as clothing-optional, but he also knows Bitty’s probably worked himself up into a whole production (and is likely to chirp him if he shows up wearing athletic wear, which he would otherwise do). He sorts through his “press conference” clothes for a while, and settles on jeans and a dark blue button-down.

Ransom answers the door when he knocks. “Hey man! Happy ‘Thanksgiving,’” he says, doing exaggerated air quotes.

“Thanks,” Jack says, stepping into the Haus, which smells amazing for once, instead of like beer and feet. He holds up the sweating bottle of sparkling cider he’s carrying. “Where can I put this?”

“Kitchen,” Ransom replies, gesturing to the door like a game show host. “If you’re brave enough to go in there.”

In the kitchen, Bitty is wrist deep in a bowl of some yellow, crumbly substance. Almost every inch of counter space is taken up with bowls, pans, and the four magnificent pies on a cooling rack in the corner. “Hi Jack!” Bitty says, not pausing his mixing, or even looking up. “Happy Thanksgiving!”

“Happy Thanksgiving,” Jack replies, setting the cider in the fridge. He peers curiously at Bitty’s bowl. “What are you making?”

“Cornbread dressing! It’s my MooMaw’s recipe. It’s got cornbread, onion, celery, sage, a little browned sausage..I’m just working it all together with some milk now, to make it nice and moist, and then I’ll top it with a couple pats of butter and pop it in the oven!”

Jack pretends to look around for a camera. “Am I - are you filming one of your videos right now?”

“Oh, you hush,” Bitty says, still mixing his dressing. Jack watches, hypnotized, as a flush creeps up the back of Bitty’s neck. He’s standing close enough that he could touch Bitty’s neck, if he wanted to, could run his thumb over the close-buzzed hair there.

Bitty looks over his shoulder at him, and Jack realizes he’s just been staring. “What?” Bitty asks.

“Oh - do you need help with anything?”

“Actually, yes.” Bitty moves around him to the sink and starts rinsing cornbread off his hands. “If you could go in the backyard and keep my housemates from burning this place down, that would be _very_ helpful.”

“Are you sure you don’t need any help in here? Dinner for six by yourself seems like a lot.”

“I like it! A lot of it’s already done, anyway, I’ve been prepping all week. And it’s just five of us,” he continues, getting a large casserole dish down from a cabinet. “Lardo’s not coming.”

“She’s not?” This is news to Jack.

Bitty shakes his head. “She decided to go to her parents’ house after all. I think she and Shitty had some kind of fight.”

“Really?”

“All the more reason for you to go make sure he doesn’t burn this Haus down before anyone gets a chance to eat these pies.” Bitty makes shoo-ing motions with an oven mitt.

Jack lets himself be chased out of the kitchen. If Lardo and Shitty are fighting, Shitty’s going to need his bros. He couldn’t help but notice, though, that Bitty barely looked at him the whole time he was in the kitchen. Something’s definitely wrong between them - Jack just wishes he had the slightest clue what it could be.

~*~

Holster and Ransom come in to set the table when the turkey’s close to done, and the five of them sit down to eat.

“This is 'swawesome, Bits,” Holster breathes rapturously, surveying the feast laid out before them.

“Well thank you, Holster,” Bitty says, feeling gratified. Everything does look pretty great, if he does say so himself. “And thanks to Shitty for cooking the turkey.”

Shitty is wearing a shirt with the sleeves cut off, unbuttoned, making it a sort of vest; it’s as close to wearing an actual shirt as Bitty could convince him to get. “Gentlemen,” he intones, picking up his wine glass, “I’d like to say a few words.”

“Here we go,” Ransom whispers loudly to Holster, who giggles; Bitty kicks him under the table.

“Thanksgiving,” Shitty begins, “is a bullshit holiday, as we all well know.” Jack looks startled. Ransom and Holster are nodding. “It commemorates the genocide of entire peoples, and celebrates the roots of a patriarchal system of white supremacy that continues in this country to this very day. Our current society’s dangerous attitudes toward poverty and social welfare were set in motion by our Puritan forebears, and we should remember that.

“Despite the holiday's highly problematic history,” he continues, “there is something to be said for eating delicious food with one’s very best bros, and I am thankful to be here with you all today.”

“Hear, hear,” says Holster.

“Let’s eeeaaat,” whines Ransom.

“To bros!” Shitty concludes, raising his glass.

“To bros,” everyone echoes, toasting each other. When Jack clinks his glass against Bitty’s, Bitty meets his eyes for the first time all day, and sees them crinkled in Jack’s familiar shy smile.

Why did Jack have to wear that blue shirt, which brings out his eyes so well, and strains ever so slightly at his biceps? Did he have to leave the top button undone? Doesn’t Bitty have enough to deal with, without that teasing glimpse of Jack’s collarbone? Couldn’t Jack have just dressed like he was about to rob a Burger King, like he usually does?

 _To bros_ , he reminds himself, taking a gulp of his wine. _Y’all are bros_.

The meal is fantastic. Despite his fears that the Haus would go up in a fiery inferno, Bitty has to admit that the turkey has turned out wonderfully, golden brown and juicy and crispy-skinned. “Oh my God,” says Ransom around a mouthful of potatoes, his eyes raised to the heavens, “this is the best gravy I’ve ever had in my life.”

Shitty adds, “This cornbread thing is great!”

“You say that like you’re surprised,” Bitty teases him.

“I _am_ surprised, it looks _very_ weird, but it’s fucking _delicious_ , dude, great work.”

Bitty preens a bit. “Don’t thank me, thank my MooMaw.”

As the meal progresses, Bitty starts feeling less like he’s about to jump out of his skin every time Jack glances in his direction, and they fall into something like their usual easy banter. He missed this, he realizes. He missed Jack.

Finally, after everyone’s had seconds and a few people have had thirds, the pace of the meal slows. Holster is still doggedly mopping gravy off of his plate with a roll, but everyone else has put down their forks. Bitty feels full and warm and content. “I hope y’all saved room for pie,” he drawls.

Shitty groans and pats his belly. “I’m gonna need to let this settle for at least an hour before pie,” he says. There’s a glob of mashed potato in his mustache.

“Same,” says Ransom. “In the meantime, anyone wanna play Mario Kart?”

Shitty and Holster voice their enthusiasm for that plan, and everyone stands up from the table.

“I’m just gonna put a few of these things up,” Bitty says, gathering up serving dishes.

“Leave it, Bitty,” Holster calls over his shoulder as he’s heading to the living room. “You cooked, we’ll clean up, leave it and we’ll get to it later.”

“Well, I’m gonna at least put the stuff with meat in it up, so it’s not sitting out,” Bitty says to himself.

“I’ll help you.”

Bitty jumps; he hadn’t realized Jack was still in the room. “O-okay, thanks.”

They move into the kitchen in companionable silence. Bitty hops up to sit on the counter, pulling down a stack of plastic containers from a cupboard up above. He hands them to Jack, one at a time, and Jack starts spooning leftovers into them and popping them in the fridge.

“I’m glad you could come over,” Bitty says, when he can no longer take the quiet.

“Me too,” Jack says. He straightens up from the fridge, and turns to face Bitty; still sitting on the counter, Bitty feels pinned in place by his gaze. “Bitty, can I ask you something?”

“Sure,” he replies, aiming for a nonchalance he doesn’t feel.

Jack comes to stand in front of him, an anxious look in his eyes. “Is everything OK?”

Bitty glances down, is confronted once again by the bare skin of Jack’s throat, looks back up at him again. “W-what do you mean?”

“I just…” Jack’s mouth is pulled into a confused little frown. “You’ve just seemed - are you...mad at me for something?”

 _Oh, Lord._ “No, Jack, I’m not mad at you.”

He takes a step closer; Bitty can smell his cologne, the laundry detergent on his clothes. “Then what’s going on?” He looks so sweetly puzzled and unhappy, Bitty immediately hates himself for having been so awkward around him lately.

“Jack, I…” Unmoored, Bitty takes a deep breath. “When I...at the hockey game,” he says finally. He’s staring at a point somewhere over Jack’s left shoulder. “When you got hurt, I, uh…I guess it just made me realize, how much...you mean to me. It was scary, seeing you get hurt. And I...guess I was scared,” he finishes quietly. Jack is silent; after a moment, Bitty risks looking up at him again. Jack’s face is full of emotion, something sweet and tender that steals Bitty’s breath.

Jack takes another step toward him. He’s standing directly in front of Bitty now, his hips between Bitty’s knees where Bitty’s sitting on the counter, his face just inches away from Bitty’s. “You…” Jack’s voice is raspy. He swallows, and Bitty watches his Adam’s apple bob in his throat. “You mean a lot to me, too.”

He’s so close now, Bitty can feel the heat of his body, can hear the soft sound of his breath. Jack’s hand brushes Bitty’s knee and comes to rest there, and that small touch thrums through him. Bitty is utterly aflame; if Jack wanted to have him right here, on the kitchen counter, his housemates in the next room, Bitty would let him. Jack glances down, at Bitty’s mouth, and Bitty sits forward slightly, leaning toward him.

A chorus of shouts erupt from the living room; dimly, Bitty’s aware of Shitty yelling “In your FACE!”

At the sound, Jack steps back from him, pulling his hand away as if scalded. “Jack -” Bitty starts to say.

“I have to go,” Jack says, turning away from him. “I have a game tomorrow.” He glances back at Bitty and gives him a tiny, uncertain smile. “Thanks for dinner.” The kitchen door swings closed behind him before Bitty can marshal his thoughts; he can faintly hear Jack saying goodbye to the other guys.

Bitty stares at the door. “You didn’t even have pie yet,” he says weakly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dang, Shitty, I know you've been under a lot of stress, but that's not cool, my friend.
> 
> This will most likely be the longest chapter! (Me, before starting this chapter: This chapter will take place almost entirely at Thanksgiving! Me, 4500 words into this chapter: *Still haven't even started the Thanksgiving part*)
> 
> Thanks as always to Laurens for beta-ing! She pointed out that it might not be totally clear why Lardo's not looped in on the financing stuff, so: Shitty and Holster co-founded SAMwell; their money started it, and they co-own the business. Lardo is the Director of Growth, so she's a high-up management position (so her leadership is a big part of the company's success, which is why the VC firm wants to know about her), but isn't part of the executive team, which is who would have the final say in these decisions.
> 
> Thanks also for your comments and kudos, every single one of them makes my whole day.
> 
> Coming next week in Chapter 9: Christmas Shopping with Tater; Lunch with Brad; At Least One Conversation About Feelings


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bitty spends the rest of Thanksgiving weekend in a haze. He eats pie, helps his housemates assemble elaborate turkey sandwiches, and binge watches 30 Rock with Holster, but internally he’s just replaying that encounter with Jack in the kitchen again and again.
> 
> Jack stepping closer to him. Jack’s hand brushing his knee. Jack’s voice, low and husky and filled with emotion.
> 
>  _Okay...what_ was _that?_

Bitty spends the rest of Thanksgiving weekend in a haze. He eats pie, helps his housemates assemble elaborate turkey sandwiches, and binge watches 30 Rock with Holster, but internally he’s just replaying that encounter with Jack in the kitchen again and again.

Jack stepping closer to him. Jack’s hand brushing his knee. Jack’s voice, low and husky and filled with emotion.

 _Okay...what_ was _that?_

When he was in high school, Bitty had a series of crushes on guys who were unavailable for various reasons, whether because they weren’t gay, or weren’t out, or just weren’t into him. He knows how easy it is to read interest into someone’s behavior when it’s not there, has spent many hours mentally dissecting boys’ actions to try to twist them into evidence that _he likes me!_ He’s trying not to do that with Jack; he’s all too aware of how painfully disappointing that letdown would turn out to be if he was wrong.

But like, _what_ was _that?_ Bitty doesn’t want to read things into someone’s behavior that aren’t there, but he’s also not a _child_ ; he’s been around enough to know when someone is about to kiss him. If Jack wasn’t thinking about kissing him in that moment, Bitty will eat his apron. And if Jack was thinking about kissing him, well, what the _heck_? Does Jack like boys? Does Jack like _him_? It’s not like Thanksgiving is the kind of holiday that tends to overpower people with lust and make them do things they otherwise wouldn’t.

 _Boy, you’ll be the death of me,_ Beyoncé is singing as Bitty gets ready for bed. _You’re my James Dean, you make me feel like I’m seventeen…_

And if Jack _does_ like boys, if Jack does, in fact, like Bitty, should Bitty say something to him about it? He keeps checking his phone to see if Jack has texted him, even just to say hi or make plans for coffee, but no luck. But Jack’s a sporadic texter at best - Bitty’s never been able to figure out what makes him text normally, then go dark for days at a time - so maybe that doesn’t mean anything?

_You know I've been in love before...You're the first one I ever seen, that burns like gasoline…_

With a groan, Bitty stops the song. He turns out the light and clutches his pillow to his chest, eyes wide open in the dark.

 _What_ was _that?_

~*~

Shitty spends the entire holiday trying not to think. He drinks too much, smokes too much, eats too much pie, sleeps hardly at all. Seeing Ransom and Holster in a pile on the couch just depresses him, so he keeps to himself. He’s notices with a touch of concern that Bitty is also wandering around like a zombie. Usually, he’d be beating down Bitty’s door to figure out what’s the matter with that pint-sized Southern treasure, but right now he just doesn’t have the emotional strength to deal with anyone else’s problems - which, of course, just makes him feel even worse.

Shitty was hoping that the long Thanksgiving weekend would give Lardo enough time to stop being mad at him, but he’s out of luck: at work on Monday, she is distantly professional, only speaking to him when it’s absolutely necessary and then only about work topics. He tries to pull her aside to apologize, but she just says “I don’t want to hear it. Let me know when you’re ready to tell the team,” and stalks off.

He thinks about the time in college that Lardo got the summer art fellowship in Boston, how they stayed up all night drinking champagne and smoking joints on the roof and talking (which they did most nights, but this time with _champagne_ ). He thinks about the countless hours he’s spent watching her paint, loading her canvases and sculptures in and out of trucks, walking around art museums while she waxed rhapsodic about color and light. He thinks about the terrible barista job she had right out of school, and the terrible corporate graphic design job she had after that, where she had to wear a skirt and pantyhose every day, and would come by the Haus with a greasy bag of McDonald’s fries to complain about the fake assholes she worked with, too burnt out to even pick up a paintbrush.

 _I am a fucking asshole_ , he thinks, wandering around the Haus at night after everyone’s asleep. _I am an asshole who has no idea what he’s doing._ At least Lardo has respected his request not to tell anyone else yet - Shitty’s not sure he could handle a “we’re not mad, just disappointed” lecture from Ransom and Holster right now.

Brad from Barnstable Capital Ventures is coming down to Providence this week, along with another one of the VCs (a guy named Mike, who’s quiet and earnest and by far Shitty’s favorite), to take Shitty and Holster out to lunch. Shitty’s so miserable about fucking things up with Lardo that he can’t even feel anxious about the meeting; he just feels exhausted and hollowed-out and numb. At least once they get the offer, it will be over. They can take the money and have some breathing room for a while, the team can relax, they can hire some more people to share the load.

Holster is excited enough about the meeting for the both of them. In the days leading up to the meeting, Shitty can hear him at night, pacing back and forth in the attic above him, talking to Ransom about it, and the lower rumble of Ransom’s replies. He should be up there, too, talking to his best bros about everything that’s been going on with him, but he can’t. He’s their CEO, everyone’s counting on him to make this deal, and he can’t admit - even to Ransom and Holster - how apprehensive he’s feeling.

Brad and Mike arrive, and Brad insists on taking them to a fancy steakhouse. Shitty orders a salad, because fuck Brad (also if Shitty eats a steak in the middle of the day he’s going to fall asleep at his desk later). Surprisingly, Brad orders a bottle of champagne along with his steak.

“Are we celebrating?” Holster asks with a nervous chuckle.

“You bet your ass we’re celebrating, Birkholtz.” Brad’s smile is so white and shiny, Shitty’s sure his teeth are veneers. He pulls out his leather briefcase (Shitty has a very similar briefcase, at home in the bottom of his closet; it’s the briefcase one’s stuffed-shirt grandparents give one when one gets into Harvard Law, or, apparently, Harvard Business School) and sets it on the table. “I have here,” Brad says, “the official paperwork to bring SAMwell into the Barnstable Capital Partners portfolio.”

It’s happening. It’s really happening. They did it. Holster is grinning; everyone is shaking hands; Brad slaps Shitty on the back, which he doesn’t much care for.

“Of course you’ll want to take some time with it, have your attorneys look it over, but we see big things ahead for you guys,” Mike says. _We’re not all guys, but OK_ , Shitty thinks but doesn’t say.

“It’s our hope that this funding will allow you to grow the app to its full potential. I know you’ve had some offers to buy you out,” Mike continues, surprising Shitty, “but, candidly, selling the company right now would be a mistake. You have the potential to make this place worth five times what it is right now if you can grow in the right way.”

“That’s certainly our hope,” Holster says, taking a bite of his baked potato.

“The next year for you guys is going to be all about growth,” Brad says, leaning back in his chair. “That means committing to an expansion roadmap for the app and really fleshing out your biz dev strategy. I’d say you need to at least double your team, get some serious developer firepower under your belt, hire some sales pros who already have contacts in the market. I can send you some names, I know a few guys who are open to finding their next thing.”

Shitty exchanges a glance with Holster; hiring decisions are something they’ve been discussing since they first decided to look for funding. “We’d be happy to talk to them, sure,” he says cautiously. “We want to make sure we preserve our company culture, so hiring is really important to us.”

“For example,” Holster adds, “it would be great if our next hire weren’t a dude.”

“Oh, certainly, diversity is very important and we respect that, absolutely,” Mike says, nodding vigorously. “Unfortunately, holding out for that ideal candidate is often the enemy of scale.”

“Not a ton of female app developers out there, last time I checked,” grins Brad. Shitty would bet you a dollar that “the last time Brad checked” was the 12th of Never. “We’d hate to see you guys spinning your wheels for months when there are people who can get you what you need today.”

“Again, sustaining our company culture is important to us, especially as we grow.” Shitty’s just hoping his gritted teeth look like a smile.

Brad and Mike look at each other. “First-time CEOs,” they say in unison, laughing.

“Look, Knight, I get it,” Brad says. “You guys built this thing yourselves, you did it your way, it’s working for you so far, so why mess with it, right? But let me tell you something, the tactics that got you to your first hundred thousand aren’t the tactics that are gonna get you to your first million. And the tactics that get you your first million? Aren’t gonna be the tactics that get you to the next five million.”

Mike smiles, topping up everyone’s champagne glass. “This is why you have us. We’re here to provide the guidance you need, because we’ve been on the boards of companies that have experienced the kind of growth you’re hoping for. We know what it takes.”

After lunch wraps up (Brad grabs the check and puts his Black card down with a wink that makes him look _exactly_ like Shitty’s grandfather, and Shitty does not punch him, for which he would like a trophy), Shitty and Holster walk back to the office in stunned silence.

“Well...that happened,” Holster finally says.

Shitty draws a shaky breath. “Yeah, that was...that was something.”

“Should we...I guess, read the paperwork and then huddle back up and talk about it?”

“I guess,” Shitty murmurs, raking a hand through his hair. “I don’t know, man, that was weird as shit.”

“We don’t have to take all of their input, you know,” Holster points out. “Some of it is just, like, suggestions.”

“Yeah, suggestions from people who are about to own 40% of our company.”

“I do think they have a point about investing in biz dev sooner rather than later,” Holster says. “I can get with Lardo on getting a job posting out sometime this week or next.”

Shitty groans, covering his eyes. “About that. I have something I need to tell you.”

~*~

Jack and Tater are wandering in and out of shops, searching for a Christmas present for Tater’s mother. The week after Thanksgiving is a good three weeks before Jack usually even starts thinking about Christmas gifts, but Tater insists that if he doesn’t send something early, it won’t get there in time, so here they are.

So far, Tater has rejected a snow globe, several scarves, some very nice gloves, and an entire jewelry counter. Meanwhile, Jack has successfully picked up presents for Bob (a shaving kit with some locally-made shaving cream and lotions, a cashmere scarf) and Alicia (perfume, a necklace with a snowflake motif, and also a cashmere scarf, Jack just really likes cashmere, OK?). At this point, his Christmas shopping is technically done - but he keeps seeing things he wants to get for other people.

For Shitty, he buys a t-shirt with Princess Peach on it, holding her parasol from Super Smash Brothers; above Peach’s grinning visage is the slogan SMASH THE PATRIARCHY. He sees a book of photographs from contemporary New England photographers that he picks up for Lardo, thinking of a recent beer night conversation about the harsh, bright, slanting light unique to the American Northeast. Remembering Holster’s complaints about the exorbitant price of beers at Falconers games, he gets him a wallet with a hidden built-in flask; he gets the same for Ransom, but pays a little extra to get the one with the maple-leaf motif.

And, of course, every store he and Tater visit, Jack sees something that reminds him of Bitty. A new springform pan, a vintage rolling pin at an antique shop, an enamel pin in the shape of figure skates, a t-shirt that says I’M HUGE ON TWITTER, a mint-green KitchenAid mixer.

Jack’s half-hoping that Bitty somehow didn’t pick up on how close he was to kissing him on Thanksgiving, but he’s having a hard time coming up with a plausible alternative explanation. _We’re just really good friends_ is the kind of explanation that only works on people who don’t want to know the truth, and between Bitty’s stammered confession and Jack’s own near-loss of control, he’s pretty sure Bitty must at least suspect what’s really going on with Jack.

So, what do you get the guy you’re in love with, who probably _knows_ you’re in love with him, when you can’t _tell_ him you’re in love with him? Somehow baking supplies don’t seem to cut it.

At least Jack’s having fun shopping. He’s never seen Tater in any mode besides Chill Locker Room Tater and Scary Hockey Tater; seeing Devoted Son Tater is providing him with endless entertainment. “A good gift, is personal,” Tater explains, as he drags Jack out of the seventh store in a row. “If it means nothing, just a gift for...because a gift, my mom will know, and then she will be _pissed_.” Tater has recently learned the word _pissed_ and is a big fan of it.

They've almost passed the candy shop when Jack sees something in the window. “Hang on, I’m going to run in here.” He leaves Tater perusing a street vendor’s Providence-themed souvenirs and returns a moment later, clutching a plaid-patterned box. “Here,” he says, thrusting the box at Tater’s chest. “This is for you.”

“For me?” Tater’s eyes light up. He holds the box at arm’s length. “What is it?”

“It’s maple candy,” Jack says. “They make it where I come from. This brand is from Vermont,” he adds with a roll of his eyes, “so it’s not quite as good, but you’ll get the idea.”

“Zimmboni.” Tater may actually be getting a little misty-eyed; he pulls Jack into a hug, clapping him hard on the back several times. Jack’s getting used to Tater’s hugs, which are “bear hugs” in the sense that it’s like being mauled by a bear.

“You are good friend,” Tater says. “I should get you something Russian, but you don’t like coffee or vodka or potato or nothing good.”

“You don’t have to get me anything,” Jack says, suddenly feeling awkward. “I didn’t mean to, like, imply that you should.”

“Maybe I want get you something because I am _also_ good friend,” Tater says sternly. “Maybe sometimes people _like_ you, Zimmboni.”

Jack’s face feels like it’s on fire. He turns to head toward the next store and Tater falls into step beside him. “I’m not used to having friends,” he says after a few minutes.

“You have lots friends,” Tater says. “You have sports app guys: tiny figure skating man, long-hair hippie man, Lardo…”

Jack snorts. Lardo definitely made a lasting impression on Tater.

“...plus you have Falcs guys. You even have Tater Tot,” Tater continues, grinning. “Only person who’s thinking you don’t have friends is you.” He waves a dismissive hand. “You should…” he seems to be searching for the right English phrase, “... _get over it_.”

A rueful chuckle escapes Jack before he can help it. “OK. You’re right, I’ll get right on that.” He shakes his head, smiling. “And while we’re wishing, I’d like a pony.”

Tater wrinkles his nose. “What is _pony_? Is _little horse_? Why you want this?”

~*~

“Hey y’all! I hope y’all are staying warm lately, it has been _so cold_ here! I don’t know if this Georgia boy is ever gonna get used to these New England winters, I’m wearing a hat _indoors_ right now, that’s how cold it is!

“Do y’all like my hat? I stole it from my housemate Ransom, he’s from Toronto so he has, like, a million hats, but he calls them 'toques' because, Canada.

“Nothing keeps you warm in winter like a big mug of hot chocolate, which is why I’ve been all about these hot chocolate _cookies_! These are an ooey-gooey chocolate explosion with a toasty mini-marshmallow top.

“As usual, we’re gonna preheat that oven to 350 degrees…”

~*~

Jack stands in front of the door to the Haus for a full minute before he knocks, gathering his nerve. He’s terrible at having serious conversations over text, and he doesn’t want to have this conversation in Diablo Coffee, so a surprise in-person visit seems like his only recourse - even though it’s basically everything he finds most terrifying in the world.

Shitty answers the door, and when he sees Jack, his face kind of...melts. “ _Jack_ ,” he breathes, pulling Jack into a hug, “it’s _so_ good to see you, bro.”

“Euh...thanks,” Jack says, patting Shitty on the back and trying not to show his alarm. “It’s...good to see you too.” Shitty steps back and gives him a tremulous smile, and Jack feels like a complete heel for not being there to see Shitty. “Is...euh...is Bitty here?” he asks.

“Oh! No, he’s out Christmas shopping with Ford,” Shitty says, seeming to get ahold of himself. “The _giggling_ with those two, you would _not_ believe.”

“Oh.” Jack doesn’t bother to try to hide his disappointment, but he does peer at Shitty with concern. “Are...you OK?”

Shitty exhales, shakes his head, closes his eyes. “No. No, I don’t think I am OK, actually.”

Half an hour later, Jack is sitting in the desk chair in Shitty’s bedroom, watching Shitty pace restlessly around the room.

“So...I just feel like...I don’t know, do I really want _Brad_ and a bunch of _Brads_ to own part of SAMwell? Especially if they’re going to be all... _Brad_ about it?”

Jack is frowning. “Does Holster know you feel this way?”

“What am I supposed to say to him?” Shitty wails. “Like, ‘Hey, I know I started this company with you but now the thought that people want to give us millions of dollars makes me want to crawl in a hole’? I’m the CEO, I’m supposed to look out for the welfare of the business.”

“And you think lying to your co-founder is the way to do that?”

Shitty seems to run out of steam. He flops down on his back on the bed and stares up at the ceiling. “No. I don’t know. I don’t know what the best thing for the business is. I felt like we had a really good thing going, and now I’m just freaking out all the time, and being a dick to my friends, and jeopardizing everything just because I’m scared.” He sighs. “I should _want_ this. Securing funding, growing the business, making a ton of money - that’s what you’re _supposed_ to do when you found a startup.”

“Since when do you care what you’re supposed to do?” Jack asks dryly, poking Shitty’s knee with his foot.

“I don’t knowwwwww,” groans Shitty.

“I have a hard time picturing you founding SAMwell just so you could sell it and get rich.”

Shitty props himself up on one elbow. “No, I founded it so I could work at the kind of company I want to work at, and hire other people who wanted to work at that kind of company, and do cool shit.”

“So,” Jack muses, “maybe you don’t have to take the funding from Brad in order to do that.” An idea is dawning on him, although if he’s honest with himself, it’s been hiding in the back of his mind for weeks.

“So, what, I should sell to Explore instead?”

Jack tries not to roll his eyes; Shitty needs a friend right now, even if he is being a bit obtuse. “Shitty. Look at me.” He waits until Shitty sits all the way up and meets his eyes. “I make...a _lot_ of money. And you know me, I don’t do anything, I don’t buy anything, I don’t go anywhere, I don’t spend it. _I_ could invest in SAMwell. I’d be happy to -”

“No. No, no no no no,” Shitty’s waving his arms, refusing to let Jack get another word in. “I am not taking money from you. It’s one thing to co-found the company with Holster, where we’re both running it and we both know what we’re getting into, but I’m not just going to take money from a friend who doesn’t know the business. You’d probably never get that money back out.”

“I don’t care if I don’t get it back -”

“And what kind of friend would I be if I let you make that kind of investment, then? No. Jack,” Shitty shakes his head, his usual bright grin starting to creep back onto his face, “you are a beautiful human being. I love you so much right now. Thank you for offering that to me, really, it means the world to me, but no. I can’t accept it. No.” Jack’s offer seems to have perked him up, though, because he doesn’t flop back down into his self-pity pose on the bed.

Jack sighs. “OK. I can’t make you let me invest in SAMwell. But...look at yourself, dude. You are _miserable_. Just...don’t take an option that’s going to make you miserable, OK? I need SAMwell to stay SAMwell.” He shoots Shitty a sidelong grin. “I care too much about everyone who works there.”

Shitty sits forward, a gleam coming into his eyes. “Speaking of which.”

Jack feels himself go still. “Speaking of which, what?”

Shitty stays silent, eyebrows raised. Jack raises his eyebrows back, waiting. Shitty should know better than to try to ride out a pause with him; Jack can stay quiet all day, whereas he knows perfectly well that Shitty has trouble stopping talking long enough to eat or sleep.

After a long minute, Shitty finally breaks eye contact, huffing an exasperated sigh. “Look,” he says, leaning his elbows on his knees. “I’m not trying to pry into anything you don’t want to talk to me about, and if you don’t want to talk to me about this, I swear I will shut up forever.” His mouth twists into a wry smile at Jack’s skeptical look. “About this, I mean, not, like, in general.”

Jack’s stomach is in knots; he tries to keep his hands still. “Okay,” he says, trying to keep his voice casual.

“I just...I couldn’t help but notice that you ran out of the Haus like your tail was on fire on Thanksgiving. And…” Shitty looks down at his fingers, which are twisting together. “I also couldn’t help but notice that my resident ray of Southern sunshine has been more like a little gray rain cloud since then.”

 _Oh shit._ Jack’s pulse starts to speed up. Who else has noticed? Do Ransom and Holster know? Does everyone know? Can they be trusted not to tell their friends or, heaven forbid, the _media_? Has Shitty said anything about this to Bitty?

“Jack?” Shitty’s eyes are worried.

Jack slumps down in his chair. “Am I really that obvious? Does...does everybody know?”

“No! Dude. I don’t think anyone else would have noticed anything, I only noticed because I know him, and I know you, and...I may know a bit about carrying a torch for someone.”

“That’s an understatement,” Jack snorts, trying to hide his relief.

“Hey!” Shitty punches him lightly in the knee. “Rude. Anyway...what’s going on with you two?”

Jack seriously considers denying that anything at all is going on, turning the conversation back to Shitty’s business and personal woes. He knows that Shitty would keep his word about not bringing it up again. But he looks at Shitty, and he doesn’t see any censure or judgement, just concern and patience and affection. It might be nice, to talk to someone about this for once. Maybe Shitty is safe.

He chooses his words carefully. “The NHL is...a lot of people in the league are very cool. But it’s a very...I guess macho?...place. You don’t show weakness. You play with broken bones and bruised ribs and you don’t complain. And even though a lot of the guys are cool, there’s never been anybody who was, euh, you know…” he rubs his forehead. “You’re supposed to be tough. You’re not supposed to be…”

Shitty pokes Jack’s knee with his foot and repeats Jack's own words back to him: “Since when do you care what you’re supposed to do?”

Jack laughs a little, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “Literally my entire life?”

“OK, fair,” Shitty nods. “Go on.”

“Keeping that kind of secret…” He thinks about Kenny: brilliant, funny, angry, pulling him close, pushing him away. He thinks about Bitty: sweet, strong, sensitive, fighting to have the life he wants. He sighs. “Keeping that kind of secret can destroy you. I wouldn’t ask…” He can’t quite say it. “I wouldn’t ask, you know, anyone, to do that for me. I don’t even know how I would go about asking someone to do something like that,” he admits, “even if I did want to.”

“I get that,” says Shitty. There’s a thoughtful pause. “Can I make a comment?”

Jack gestures for him to go ahead.

“You are a fucking fabulous man.” Jack ducks his head, blushing. “No, I mean it.” Shitty surprises Jack by taking his hand. “I don’t know why you think you don’t deserve to be loved, but you do.”

“It’s not that,” Jack protests, “it’s just that with my career -”

“OK,” Shitty says, holding up his hands in surrender. “But... _you do_.”

Jack nods, at a loss for words. “Thanks, bro,” he mumbles.

Shitty smiles. “So maybe you should do what you want, instead of what you think you’re supposed to do.”

“I will if you will,” Jack says, giving Shitty a meaningful look.

Shitty holds out a fist for Jack to bump. “You’ve got yourself a deal, my friend. Now,” he sighs, “I just have to figure out what that is.”

~*~

 **Shitty:** Hey @channel  
We are invited to Jack’s place on Wednesday to play video games

 **Chowder:** Whoa, I bet his place is nice

 **Holster:** It wouldn’t surprise me if it was just like, a completely empty room with a TV and 1 chair

 **Ransom:** Jack wouldn’t invite us over unless he had enough chairs, he’s better at math than that

 **Nursey:** I’m imagining him getting ready for people to come over and it’s just like the “Having a Few People Over” song from Crazy Ex-Girlfriend

 **Dex:** I haven’t seen that show

 **Nursey:** It’s SO GOOD  
_Holster and Ford reacted with :+1:_

 **Ford:** It’s SO good, don’t be fooled by the weird name  
You should watch it @Dex, it’s on Netflix  
No way Jack has anything close to Daryl’s pizzazz, though, no offense to Jack

 **Ransom:** @Shitty do you know what system he has? I could bring some games

 **Holster:** @Ransom YOU’RE NOT GOING, YOU’RE SICK

 **Ransom:** I’m not _that_ sick! It’s just a cold!

 **Dex:** No offense @Ransom but you sound like death

 **Ransom:** Yes offense! OFFENSE I SAY.  
_Nursey reacted with :laughing:_

 **Shitty:** Anyway, let me know if you’re coming on Wednesday, I can probably give some people a ride

~*~

_Dear Lardo,_

_This seems like a weird conversation to have over email, but I thought it might be the best way for me to say what I’d like to say in a way that didn’t force you to listen._

_The TL;DR of this email is that I am sorry, I am so, so sorry for what I said to you. I was completely in the wrong. I hurt you because I was scared, and that is not something anyone should do to someone they care about._

_I was a bad friend to you that day. We’ve been talking about your art since the day I met you your freshman year of college; I know how much it means to you. You’ve been fighting for this for years, and while I don’t know a lot about art, I do know that yours is beautiful and moving and personal, and you deserve every ounce of your success and more besides._

_It must have been hard to tell me that you were leaving SAMwell, especially at such a fraught time, but you did it anyway, because it was the right thing to do, and that’s what you do, even when it’s hard. You gave me this incredible opportunity to share that moment of triumph for you, as your good friend, and instead, I yelled at you._

_I had been so freaked out about all this finance stuff, and to be honest, I was scared to do this without you. You’ve always been there for me, and the thought that you wouldn’t be there for this just absolutely fucking terrified me. That’s no excuse for my lashing out at you. You had the moment you’ve been waiting for your whole life, and you wanted to share that moment with me, and instead of being honored by that, I acted like a child. I’m so sorry, Lardo. I should have been there for you._

_I failed you as an employer, as well. This whole time I’ve been saying that I want SAMwell to be the place we’ve always wanted to work. I doubt anybody wants to work someplace where, when you give your notice, your CEO yells at you and throws a tantrum. It was deeply inappropriate for me to react that way. Even if our friendship is beyond repair (which would be really sad, but a totally warranted call on your part), I hope you know that I’m not going to make things hard for you at work. Whatever you need from me to make your last weeks at SAMwell good ones, I’ll do it._

_You were right. I was pursuing funding because I thought it was what I should do, instead of what I really wanted to do. I’ve been trying to be someone I’m not, and it turns out that when you try to be someone you’re not, sometimes you succeed, and sometimes you don’t like that person very much._

_I love you, Lardo. I love you so much. You’re my best friend in the world; we’ve been through so much together, the idea that I put all that in jeopardy because of my stupid fucking business deal makes me sick._

_I understand if you can’t forgive me. All I can say is that I’m sorry, I love you, and that if you do give me another chance to be your best bro, I will never do something like this again. And since I didn’t say it when I should have: Congratulations. I’m so proud of you._

_Love,_  
_Shitty_

Shitty’s been trying not to hover over Holster’s shoulder while he reads the email. Finally, he sits back in Shitty’s desk chair, sighing.

“What do you think?” Shitty asks anxiously.

“It’s a start,” Holster sighs. “I honestly don’t know where her head’s at on this. She’s pretty pissed. _I’m_ pretty pissed.”

“Yeah.” Shitty hangs his head. “I owe you an apology, too. I’m sorry.”

“I just wish you would have _talked_ to me about any of this. We’re supposed to be bros.” Holster picks up one of the plastic dinosaurs on Shitty’s desk and starts fiddling with it. “Not to mention running this company together.”

“I know,” Shitty says simply. “I’m here now. Let’s talk about it.”

~*~

Bitty is in the middle of a full-blown wardrobe crisis. Should he wear the blue-and-red plaid shirt with his oatmeal-colored sweater over it, or the gray-and-red ringer tee with his denim jacket on top? The sweater is definitely snazzier, and he likes the way having the sleeves rolled up makes his arms look - plus the color manages to bring out his eyes while downplaying his freckles. But maybe it’s not casual enough for going over to a friend’s house to play video games.

The t-shirt and jean jacket, on the other hand, are very “Friday night in,” and, in Bitty’s opinion, make him look cute and sassy. But do they make him look too _young_? 22 isn’t that much younger than almost-27, but he’s always struggled with people thinking he looks younger than he really is, and he definitely wants Jack to see him as an adult. A mature adult, capable of mature conversations, and mature, adult things _oh Lord_ let’s go ahead and wear the sweater.

Crisis averted, there’s nothing left for Bitty to do but wait for the other guys to be ready to go, without it looking like that’s what he’s doing. Bitty wanders downstairs in what he hopes is a nonchalant manner and flops down on the beanbag chair in the living room, avoiding the gross couch. He starts scrolling through Twitter without really seeing it. His stomach is doing flip-flops. He hasn’t seen Jack since Thanksgiving - almost two weeks ago, now - and he has no idea how seeing him tonight is going to go. Will they have a chance to talk? Will Jack say anything? Should Bitty say something?

 _Maybe I should have baked something,_ he thinks, and almost springs up to throw together a quick batch of cookies before remembering the resolution he’d made earlier that week: Jack ran off before even tasting the _tarte au sucre_ Bitty made especially for him, therefore Jack is cut off from baked goods until he provides a satisfactory explanation for his actions. Never mind that the idea of showing up to someone’s house without some kind of host gift is making his Southern hospitality itch - Bitty will not bake for someone who does not appreciate baking. _So there, Jack Zimmermann._

What on Beyoncé’s green earth is taking the other guys so long? Bitty’s already tried on and rejected most of his wardrobe since they got home from work - what could Holster, a person who wears the same five shirts over and over, or Shitty, who doesn’t even _wear_ clothes half the time, possibly be doing?

Finally, Shitty saunters downstairs, pulling a t-shirt over his head as he does. “Hey Bits, you just about ready to go?”

“Ready when you are,” says Bitty, without adding _I’ve_ been _ready!_

“Sweet,” says Shitty. “Let’s ride.”

“What about Ransom and Holster?”

“I think Ransom has finally admitted he’s sick,” Shitty explains, “which is good because I am tired of hearing him blow his nose in the office.”

“It is SO loud!” Bitty agrees. “He sounds like a goose.”

“A Canada goose, am I right?” Shitty waggles his eyebrows and makes double finger-guns.

Bitty shakes his head. “Shitty Knight, you’re better than that, honestly.”

“Anyway, Holster’s gonna stay here and make Ransom some chicken soup, and by ‘make him soup’ I definitely mean ‘order him soup on GrubHub.’”

Bitty stands up and manages not to wipe his sweating palms on his jeans. “All right! Let’s go, then.”

Bitty manages to distract himself on the ride to Jack’s by chattering to Shitty about Instagram’s latest algorithm update (“I don’t see why they think anyone wants to hear about what their local bar had for happy hour special five days ago”). Jack lives in a gleaming new building with a pool and a fitness center, north of downtown in what Bitty’s used to thinking of as a “rich people neighborhood.”

Bitty and Shitty encounter Dex and Chowder in the tastefully-appointed lobby. “I can’t believe Jack lives here!” Chowder squeals. “I don’t think I could live here, the building’s too _huge_ , I think I would get lost!”

Dex holds out a paper grocery bag. “I brought chips.”

 _Well now see what you’ve done, Eric Bittle,_ Dex _is officially a more polite guest than you, do you see what happens when you let your pride interfere with your manners?_ Bitty lectures himself, trying not to resent Dex. After all, knowing Dex, they probably just brought chips because they wanted to eat some chips.

Jack answers the door in jeans and a black button-down, and Bitty’s glad he wore the sweater. “Hey,” Jack says to everyone, and is it Bitty’s imagination, or do Jack’s eyes linger on him a moment longer than on anyone else? “Come on in.”

They follow Jack’s fabulous ass into a large, sparsely decorated apartment. Bitty can’t help but gaze around curiously, thinking _so this is where Jack lives._ The furniture is all leather and dark wood, a shade darker than the hardwood floors. The walls are the generic gray-beige the contractors no doubt painted every unit in this building before people started moving in, and are almost entirely unadorned, although there are a few framed photos of Jack’s family hung up here and there. The kitchen is huge and modern, with track lighting gleaming off of every stainless-steel surface; Bitty makes a mental note to convince Jack to let him bake here, once Jack has atoned for his pie-related sins.

“You have a _pool table_?” Dex gasps. “That is totally wicked!”

“Yeah,” says Jack. “My, euh, parents got it. They helped me pick out most of the furniture.”

Bitty imagines Jack trailing Alicia Zimmermann through furniture stores, being asked for opinions and shrugging his eloquent Quebecois shrugs every time, hating every second of it, and smiles.

“So…” Jack sticks his hands in his pockets, managing to look unspeakably awkward, as though he’s not sure what these random people are doing in his apartment, even though he’s the one who invited them all over. “Do you want to play some video games?”

The evening passes enjoyably, the five of them arguing over which character is the best for Mario Kart (“Shitty, you can’t be Wario every time.” “Yes I can, I’m the only one here with a mustache”) and chirping Jack for the contents of his fridge (“What? I bought beer.” “So now your fridge has kale, boneless skinless chicken breasts, and beer, that’s still only 3 things.”). Bitty ends up sitting on the floor in front of the couch; periodically Jack’s knee will brush his shoulder, and the contact makes the hairs on Bitty’s arms stand up.

“I’m gonna grab another beer, y’all want one?” Bitty asks at one point. Dex and Shitty each raise hands without looking up.

Jack quickly jumps to his feet. “I’ll help you carry them.”

Bitty’s never hated the open-plan design trend more than he does in this moment; even in Jack’s kitchen, they’re in partial view (and easy overhearing distance) of the folks in the living room.

“Hey,” Jack says softly, and Bitty’s breath catches. He gives Jack an encouraging smile.

“Hey Jack?” Chowder calls from the next room. “If you don’t mind, I would also like another beer, please.”

Jack gives Bitty a sheepish  _what are you gonna do?_ shrug and heads back into the living area with his arms full of beers.

Eventually, Bitty needs to excuse himself to the bathroom to collect his thoughts. He’s starting to despair that he and Jack will get a chance to talk tonight. _Maybe that’s why Jack suggested a group hangout, so I couldn’t talk to him about what happened at Thanksgiving,_ he tells himself, splashing some water on his face. Maybe Jack’s hoping that Bitty will just forget anything happened, and they can go back to being friends who meet for coffee and hang out playing video games. _That was certainly simpler,_ he thinks wistfully, _but I’m not sure I can go back to that._

Well. Regardless of what happens, they’re not going to talk about it in front of Dex and Shitty and Chowder, so Bitty might as well get back in there and try to remember where the shortcut is on Rainbow Road. He walks slowly back down the short hallway toward main living space of the apartment, too absorbed in his own thoughts to register how quiet it’s gotten, and is startled when all he sees is Jack, sitting alone on the couch, looking a little lost.

“Where’d everybody else go?” Bitty asks, peering around as though the other guys might be hiding somewhere.

Jack fidgets. “Dex got some kind of phone alert. I guess the website is down? They wanted to go over to the office to check it out, and Shitty and Chowder went with them. I told them they should go, I could give you a ride home or call you an Uber or whatever,” he finishes in a rush.

“Oh,” Bitty murmurs, stunned. “OK.” He drifts over to the couch and sits down, leaning against the arm, leaving a healthy distance between him and Jack. “Did you want to keep playing? Or...I could go, if you’d…”

“No,” Jack says hastily. “Stay, you should stay. I was…” he gulps, looking pained, “I was hoping to talk to you.”

Bitty’s heart bounces a little in his chest. “You were?”

“Yeah.” Jack stares at a point on the couch somewhere between them for so long, Bitty’s starting to wonder if Jack’s forgotten he’s there.

“ _About_ anything, or…?”

Jack’s eyes snap up to Bitty’s, but he quickly glances away again. “Yes. Euh, sorry. I wanted to say...I’m sorry about, euh. Thanksgiving.” Bitty can practically see the capillaries blooming across Jack’s cheeks as color floods his face.

Bitty cautiously moves a little closer to Jack on the couch, resting his elbow on the back, turned to face him. “What about Thanksgiving?” he asks, trying to keep his voice neutral.

Jack is smoothing one thumb along the seam of the couch cushion; he looks at that, and not at Bitty. “I shouldn’t have...left. Like that,” he mutters.

 _Poor Jack._ He looks so miserable, Bitty takes pity on him. “Well, the person you should really apologize to is yourself, Mister Zimmermann, because you missed out on some next-level pie. I can’t believe you French Canadians have managed to keep sugar pie a secret from the South for so long, my MooMaw would be _all about_ that pie.”

“You made a _tarte au sucre_? Because I was coming?” Jack’s face is so sad, Bitty thinks he might be about to cry. “I didn’t realize that. God, Bitty, I’m so sorry, you must think I -”

“You probably wouldn’t have been able to have much anyway, I know how that team nutritionist is,” Bitty interrupts, trying to lighten the mood, but Jack still looks upset. Bitty reaches out and puts a hand on his shoulder, trying not to think about how solid Jack’s muscle feels under the soft fabric of his shirt. “Jack. It’s OK. Thank you for apologizing - I’m not gonna lie, my feelings were a little hurt. I accept your apology.”

Jack nods, but he’s still not looking at Bitty. Bitty gathers his nerve. “Is that all you wanted to talk about?” he asks, keeping his hand on Jack’s shoulder.

There’s another long moment of silence. Bitty’s about to withdraw his hand, take the hint, call a cab, when Jack starts to talk again. “The thing is - “ he stops, making a frustrated face. Finally, he looks Bitty in the eye. “I really admire you, you know that?”

Of all the things Bitty thought Jack might say next, this wasn’t even on the list. “You do?”

“Yeah. You’re so...you don’t...you’re true to yourself. You don’t hide who you are. You’re not, like, belligerent about it, but it’s like...you’re who you are, and people are just going to have to deal with that.”

Now it’s Bitty’s turn to blush. “I...guess, I don’t know, that’s not how I think of myself.”

Jack’s turned toward him now. “I know how much being out has cost you. I think it shows a lot of courage, that you’re out anyway. You’re brave, and you’re strong, and you’re…kind, and I…” he trails off, his blue eyes warm like the ocean off Driftwood Beach back home.

Hardly daring to breathe, Bitty moves toward him, until their knees are touching. “You what?” he asks.

“I - I’m not like that,” Jack says, looking back down at his hands. “For me to be...brave, like that, like _you_ , it would…” He sighs. “It could destroy my career.”

Bitty can barely hear him over the sound of walls crumbling in his heart. Is Jack telling him what he _thinks_ Jack is telling him? He’s been trying not to get his hopes up for so long, his mind can’t stop looking for other explanations, but he’s not finding any.

“For me to be with…” Jack darts a glance at him, then away. “...anyone, it would have to be a secret. _No one_ could know, maybe ever. It’s awful, keeping a secret that big. It’s part of what drove me and...my ex...apart.”

 _His ex?_ Bitty files that piece of information away, to ask more about later. “I’m sorry, Jack, that must have been tough.”

“That’s the thing. I know how tough it is. I could never ask...anyone...to take on that kind of burden, not for me.”

Bitty feels a sudden flash of irritation with Jack. “I would think,” he says carefully, a touch of austerity creeping into his voice, “that that’s the kind of decision a person would prefer to make for themselves, rather than have made for them.” His hand is still on Jack’s shoulder; slowly, as though approaching a wild animal, he reaches out and puts his other hand on Jack’s knee where it’s touching his on the couch. “Jack. Please look at me.”

Jack meets his gaze, his eyes wild and raw and wretched. “Bitty, after everything you’ve been through, you deserve -”

“Don’t tell me what I deserve,” Bitty interjects, maybe more sharply than is necessary. Softening his voice, he adds, “I’d like to be the judge of that.” He rubs his thumb back and forth across Jack’s shoulder. “What about what _you_ deserve?”

Jack doesn’t reply, but his breath hitches a little as Bitty holds his gaze. “You know what I think?” Bitty asks, leaning toward him. “I think you’re a good person, and a really thoughtful and caring friend, with, just, the biggest heart. And you are _so tough on yourself._ ” Jack laughs, but doesn’t look away; he sways forward, ever so slightly. “I think you deserve someone to love on you a bit,” Bitty murmurs, his face the barest inch from Jack’s.

“Bitty.” Jack brings a hand up to touch Bitty’s face, gently brushing the hair back from Bitty’s forehead. “You are so…”

Bitty doesn’t wait to hear what Jack was going to say; he plunges forward and presses his lips to Jack’s. Jack bends into the kiss, his mouth warm and yielding. His hand strokes down the side of Bitty’s face, his thumb smoothing along the corner of Bitty’s jaw.

“...Sweet,” Jack murmurs when the kiss breaks. “You are so sweet.” He leans in to kiss Bitty again.

And again. And again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay! Kissing! Talking about feelings! Apologizing! Good work, team.
> 
> Apparently when I said "Chapter 8 will be by far the longest chapter!" what I really meant was, "...except for Chapter 9!"
> 
> [This](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=J4VwhBFY9bE) is the video from Crasy Ex-Girlfriend Nursey et al were referencing; I think about every time I am "having a few people over."
> 
> "What is _pony?_ Is _little horse?_ " is a real-life quote from my friend Serge (turns out "buy me a pony" is not an idiom they have in Russia), and I am grateful to him for letting me borrow it for a Taterism.
> 
> Thanks as always to Laurens for her keen eye in beta-ing, and for her suggestion that Shitty stand up and projectile vomit all over the table at the end of his lunch with Brad and Mike, which I did not include, but which made me chuckle. Continuing thanks as well to my bredfrens, with special thanks to earthgirl who introduced me to the concept of hot chocolate cookies.
> 
> And thanks so much to y'all for reading this, and for your wonderful comments and kudos. This is the biggest fanfic writing endeavor I've ever taken on, by a LOT, and knowing people are actually reading it and enjoying it has definitely helped me stay on course.
> 
> Coming next week in Chapter 10: The Future of SAMwell; Lardo Responds to an Email; Our Story Draws to a Close.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Here’s the thing, pals,” Shitty says. “Holster and I have been saying from the very beginning that we won’t take any deal that doesn’t let us keep SAMwell the way we want it to be. But it turns out that it’s not that simple. When people invest their money in you, they have some thoughts about what you should do to make sure they get that money back.”
> 
> “It’s more a matter of trying to find a deal that only asks for changes you can live with,” Holster adds.
> 
> “So after a lot of time, and a _lot_ of thought, and a lot of hard work on the part of everyone here, we’ve decided that the changes we can live with are...” Shitty takes a deep breath.

Bitty is trying very hard to work, which is difficult since he’s basically the living embodiment of the heart-eyes emoji this morning. He can’t stop thinking about last night, and about Jack, _Jack, Jack, Jack_. The taste of Jack’s mouth, the scent of his skin, the touch of his hands.

_OK, Bittle, focus. These platform-specific messaging strategies aren’t going to write themselves._

Jack’s weight on top of him. Jack’s breath in his ear. Jack, rebuttoning his own shirt with shaking hands, smiling ruefully, saying, “I should at least take you on a date first.” No amount of very convincing argument on Bitty’s part that they’d basically already been on a _million_ coffee dates would budge Jack on that one.

 _Stubborn_ , Bitty thinks, smiling dreamily at his Excel document. _The man I’m dating is stubborn. The man I’m_ secretly _dating is stubborn._

The secret part is going to be tough, especially when what Bitty really wants to do is burst into the conference room like Buddy the Elf, yelling “I’m in LOVE, I’m in _LOVE_ AND I _DON’T CARE WHO KNOWS IT_!” But it’s not like Bitty’s incapable of discretion - he survived high school as a closeted gay boy in rural Georgia, for Pete’s sake - and this is too important to Jack for Bitty to fuck it up by telling anyone, even the SAMwell crew.

When he got home late last night, starry-eyed and swollen-lipped, trying to sneak past Ransom and Holster to avoid being asked any questions, it felt like a night from the rebellious teenage phase Bitty never really had. He needn’t have worried, though - Holster was in the middle of a sternly-worded phone conversation with the all-night customer service line at SAMwell’s hosting company, chewing them out for the server outage that had caused the site to go down. He didn't even look in Bitty's direction when he came in.

Bitty feels like sending the hosting company a fruit basket or something. _Dear web hosting people, thank you for distracting my friends so that I could finally make out with the boy I like. Yours Truly, Eric Bittle._

Bitty’s phone buzzes. _I didn’t get enough sleep last night,_ the text reads. _Trainers are chirping me for being tired. I blame you._

Rihanna keep and preserve us, did he just get a _flirty text?_ From Jack “Hockey Robot” Zimmermann? Will wonders never cease?

 _Haha #sorrynotsorry,_ Bitty texts back. _If it makes you feel any better I am getting like 0 work done today._ He adds a kissy-face emoji before he hits Send.

 _You have to show me how to do that,_ Jack replies, _with the little cartoons._

Bitty guffaws out loud before he can help himself. So it’s come to this: he, Eric Bittle, YouTube sensation, social media expert, is dating a man who not only doesn’t know how to use emoji, he doesn’t even know what they’re called.

He smirks, thinking about introducing Jack to Snapchat. He can think of several very interesting Snaps Jack might enjoy receiving; Bitty might need to invest in some better lighting for his room.

~*~

Lardo walks into Shitty’s office without knocking and shuts the door behind her. She leans against the door for a minute, staring at him, her jaw working, seemingly deep in thought.

Shitty shuts his laptop and turns his full attention on her. “Good morning,” he says, feeling asinine.

Lardo scowls at him. “I read your email.” She brings her hand up to her mouth and chews the edge of a fingernail.

“Okay…” he says slowly. “Do you want to sit down?”

She shakes her head, still chewing on her finger. After a moment, she starts to pace erratically around the small room.

“You were right,” she says, finally. “You were a _bad friend_ to me.”

“I was,” he agrees. His hands are loose and relaxed on his knees; he’s trying to make his posture as non-threatening as possible. “I’m sorry.”

“I like working here.” She sticks out her chin a little and keeps pacing. “But SAMwell has never meant as much to me as it means to you, and _that’s OK_. It _doesn’t have to._ That doesn’t mean it doesn’t mean _anything_ to me.”

“I know,” he sighs. “Lardo, I know, I know that, I -”

“You called me a _quitter_ ,” she growls, wheeling on him.

“I should never have said that,” he says seriously. “I _don’t_ think that.”

She points a finger in his face. “I’m _not_ a quitter.”

“I know.”

“The whole reason I want to _do_ this art thing is because I’m _not a quitter!_ I’m not quitting _my art!_ ” She’s jabbing her finger toward him for emphasis. “I’ve been working for this my _whole fucking life_ , and you…” her hand falters, drops to her side. “You should get that.”

He swallows against the lump rising in his throat. “I do, I’m sorry, _fuck_ , I’m so sorry. I was scared, and I took it out on you, and, Lardo, I’m so, so sorry for that.”

“You don’t ever get to do that to me again.” Her voice is trembling. “I won’t allow it.”

“I won’t,” he says. “I swear it.”

She sinks into the chair opposite him, takes a breath, and in a new, calmer, quieter voice, says, “I don’t have to work here to be a friend to you. You shouldn’t make that a requirement.”

He exhales. “I didn’t mean to.”

“If you honestly think,” she says, fixing him with a level stare, “that I would abandon you just because I didn’t work at SAMwell anymore...if you honestly think that _this_ -” she gestures around at his office walls “- is the only thing holding us together, then. Well.” Raising her chin, she gives him a haughty look. “You lack imagination.”

“You’re right,” he replies, meeting her gaze. “I should have trusted you more than that.”

“And?”

“And, I was an asshole.”

“Yes, you were. _And?_ ”

“And I’m very, very sorry, and I will do everything in my power to make sure it never happens again, including working some of my shit out with a therapist. Jack sent me the number of his therapist, I’ve already made an appointment.”

She nods, tightly. “Good.”

“So...can we be friends again?”

“For _fuck’s sake_ , Shitty.” She purses her lips. “You know what your problem is?”

 _How much time you got_ , he thinks. “What?”

“You can’t admit to yourself what you really want. You’ve never been clear on what you wanted from work, and…” she sighs, heavily, the fight seeming to fade out of her all at once. “You’ve never been clear on what you wanted from me. I swear to God, Shitty, I don’t think you know whether you’re in love with me or just _comfortable_ with me. And that’s not fair to me.”

He stares at her, and it’s as though every piece of Lardo is standing out in sharp detail while the walls of his office fade to a blur. He can see the silver rings trembling in her ears, the almost-invisible downy hair on her upper lip, the smudge of paint on her left hand, the tears hovering in her eyes. He can’t breathe, but it doesn’t feel like anxiety; it doesn’t feel like he’s dying. It feels like he might...overflow, somehow. He knows he should speak, but he’ll be goddamned if he can even remember how to do that right now.

“I used to think,” Lardo says quietly, refocusing him on the conversation at hand, “like, ‘maybe when we’re out of college.’ And that turned into, ‘maybe when you were done with law school.’ And then, ‘maybe once we get the business off the ground.’” She scrubs at her eye with an impatient gesture. “But it just kept... _not happening_. And every time I would start to think, you know, maybe it’s all in my head, maybe we’re just bros, and then you would do something, or say something, and I just…” she shakes her head.

He wants to say _I’m sorry_ again, but it feels so inadequate. She knows. She knows how he feels. She’s known the whole time, and she’s been waiting for him to get his shit together. He’s wasted years with her. How could he not have seen that before? What has he been waiting for?

She plants her feet on the floor and stands up, looking tired. “So...yeah. Yeah, we can be friends again. If that’s what you want.”

He stands up, too, clears his throat, and walks over to her. Her eyes grow wide, but she lets him approach.

“What I what?" he says softly. "Is you. I want _you_ , Lardo.”

“You do?” Her voice dwindles to a high-pitched squeak. He knows Lardo hates the way she cries; she squeaks and her face scrunches up and gets all red and it’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

“Yes, I do.” He chuckles, amazed at how easy this is to say, now that he’s saying it. “I always have.” Slowly, giving her plenty of time to step away if she wants to, he reaches out and puts his arms around her.

She sags against him for a moment, then pulls back and smacks him on the shoulder. “Then why were you _such_ a _fucking fuck?_ ” she demands, still crying, punctuating each word with another smack.

He laughs again, but tears spring into his eyes, too. “Because I’m a fucking fuck,” he agrees. He grabs the hand she smacked him with and holds onto it, looking her in the eye. “But I fucking _love_ you.”

“Oh,” she says in a tiny voice. “Well. That’s...that’s good.”

“Is it?” he asks, anxiously peering into her face.

“Yeah.” She sniffles. “Because I...I love you, you know. Also. Too.”

“Really?” Shitty can’t contain his excitement. He pulls her close.

She rolls her eyes, looking more like herself. “God. YES, _dork_.”

He can feel the smile splitting his face. It feels like his old smile, his college smile, his pre-Harvard smile. It feels right. It feels easy. “I’m gonna kiss you now,” he murmurs, bending his face toward hers.

She grabs a fistful of his shirt and hauls him down to her. “You fucking better.”

Her lips are chapped and wet and salty. He kisses her, and kisses her, until the tears are gone from her mouth; he wraps her in his arms and buries his face in her neck, breathing her in. He briefly contemplates shrinking himself down so he could build a house here, where her neck meets her jaw, and live there always.

“See,” she murmurs into his shoulder. “Now aren’t you glad I’m not going to work for you anymore?”

 _Oh God, we’re at_ work. He leaps away from her, holding his hands out away from his body, gazing at her with a stricken look. “Oh my God, dude, I am totally sexually harassing you right now.”

She rolls her eyes again. “How dare you. I quit.”

~*~

 **Chowder:** It’s just so weird  
First of all, it’s all these birds, nobody needs that many birds

 **Ford:** How many birds is it, total?

 **Chowder:** TWENTY-THREE. It’s 23 birds.

 **Holster:** You’re right that’s way too many birds for one person to receive as a gift

 **Chowder:** Where are they even going to put them all?

 **Nursey:** Especially the swans a-swimming, have you ever seen a swan? Those things are huge

 **Bitty:** And murdery!

 **Nursey:** Oh yeah no question a swan will fuck you up

 **Bitty:** I also don’t trust geese at all, when I was 5 a goose knocked me down and took my hot dog

 **Ford:** These geese are geese a-laying, though, so presumably they’ve got other things on their minds than murder  
What with all the laying

 **Chowder:** Birds freak me out  
What I really want in life is for a bird to never touch me  
_Bitty reacted with :+1:_

 **Dex:** I could see myself with like, a shoulder parrot someday

 **Chowder:** DEX NO  
It would shit on you constantly  
Anyway  
Then after the five gold rings, which, fine  
The rest of the gifts are _people!_ Maids a-milking, ladies dancing, lords a-leaping  
So like  
Are they _slaves?_ Is this person getting their true love birds, jewelry, and _slaves?_

 **Holster:** Maybe it’s like a gift card to Milkmaids R Us  
Like, “good for 8 milkings”

 **Dex:** That is not that many, you gotta milk cows every day

 **Ransom:** Maybe they’re just throwing a kickass party  
With like dancing, leaping, milk, the works

 **Nursey:** “This club has everything. Leaping, pipers, milk, 23 birds…”

 **Chowder:** Worst party ever

 **Ransom:** See @Chowder, that kind of attitude is why you never get an invite to our Birds and Milk parties

~*~

_This is the very beginning of your direct message history with @Dex, @Chowder, and @Nursey._

**Dex:** Do any of you know what this team meeting tomorrow is about?  
I asked Ransom and he said we’d find out tomorrow

 **Bitty:** I think so, part of it anyway, but we’re not supposed to talk about it

 **Dex:** Did we get the funding? Are they selling the company?

 **Bitty:** Oh I don’t know, if that’s what it’s about then I don’t know what they’re gonna say

 **Chowder:** What did you think it was about?

 **Nursey:** Don’t worry about it - nothing bad, I bet they’ll announce it tomorrow.

 **Chowder:** If I come over there, will you whisper it to me?

 **Nursey:** No!

~*~

“My team,” Shitty says expansively, opening his arms. “Friends. Bromans. Countrypeople. Happy Friday, and welcome to the team meeting.”

“Bromans?” Ford says.

“Didn’t pull that one off?” Shitty asks with a twinkle. Ford shakes her head. “Ah, well, they can’t all be winners.”

Shitty seems...lighter, somehow, than Bitty’s seen him in a while. Holster’s standing next to him. He’s wearing his glasses, but instead of his Serious Business Face, Holster looks excited and happy, fairly quivering with anticipation.

Bitty had assumed that this meeting was going to be about the changes to the Growth team, which Lardo’s already briefed him on; seeing Shitty and Holster so giddy, though, makes him wonder if Dex was right. _Maybe this is going to be the funding announcement,_ he thinks. _Maybe they did sell the company, and they’re excited because they just made a bunch of money._ He feels an uneasy flutter of apprehension. _Is everything about to change?_

“My team,” Shitty says again. “First of all, I want to thank each and every one of you gorgeous motherfuckers for working so hard for the last few months. Special thanks goes to Ransom, Dex, and Chowder, who have been putting in a _buckwild_ amount of extra hours building new features and making our database more secure.

“Special thanks also goes to Lardo, Nursey, Bitty, and Ford, who have taken our brand and our marketing to this whole other level I didn’t even know _existed_. Oh, and special thanks to Holster, who has been crunching numbers nonstop trying to get this funding thing locked down.” He looks at Holster. “Anybody else who needs special thanks?”

“No, dude, that is literally the entire company,” Holster deadpans.

“Special thanks to the entire company!” Shitty throws out his arms again. “I love you people. Thanks so much.”

Bitty smiles at Shitty, but feels his eyes start to prickle. _Something big definitely must be happening,_ he thinks. _I hope Explore Athletics has a 401(k)._

“As you all know,” Shitty says, “We’ve been looking at funding options for SAMwell. In recent months, we’ve been in talks with Barnstable Capital Ventures, and we also - much to everyone’s surprise, my own included - had some interest from Explore Athletics to buy the whole company. Holster! Remind us why we wanted to do this.”

Holster is ready for the handoff. “To hire more people! So we could make the app bigger and better! And get more customers! And make more money!”

“And how have we tried to woo these wealthy titans of industry?” Their back-and-forth is taking on an almost vaudevillian air; Bitty wonders how much they’ve practiced it.

“By making the app bigger and better!” Holster says, with a grin. “And getting more customers! And making more money!”

“Which is great, since the whole reason we got into this shit was to make as much money as possible, right Holster?”

“FUCK NO!” Holster shouts gleefully.

The team laughs, dissipating some - but by no means all - of the nervous tension that’s been building in the room: out of the corner of his eye, Bitty can see Dex tapping the edge of their pen rapidly against the table; Chowder’s shoulders are almost up around his ears.

“Here’s the thing, pals,” Shitty says, dropping his huckster persona. “Holster and I have been saying from the very beginning that we won’t take any deal that doesn’t let us keep SAMwell the way we want it to be. But it turns out that it’s not that simple. When people invest their money in you, they have some thoughts about what you should do to make sure they get that money back.”

“It’s more a matter of trying to find a deal that only asks for changes you can live with,” Holster adds.

“So after a _lot_ of time, and a lot of thought, and a lot of hard work on the part of everyone here, we’ve decided that the changes we can live with are...” Shitty takes a deep breath. “No changes.”

Bitty looks around uneasily, but everyone seems as confused as he is. “What does that mean?” he asks.

“It means we’re not going to sell the company,” Shitty explains with a smile.

“So, you got the funding?” asks Nursey with a twinge of apprehension in his voice.

“We did, yes!” Shitty replies. “But we’re not going to take it.”

“Oh my goodness,” Bitty murmurs amid similar noises of consternation from the team.

“So what are we going to do, then?” Dex is scowling, as usual, but Bitty knows them well enough to know by now that this is their worried scowl, not their angry scowl.

“We’re going to remain what we’ve been the whole time: a profitable, bootstrapped startup,” Holster says proudly.

“Much as I _hate_ , hate hate hate, the word ‘bootstrapped,’” Shitty adds, “Holster is correct. We’re going to finance company growth the old-fashioned way: by getting more customers and making more money.” Bitty feels a rush of elation; he looks over at Chowder, who’s grinning wildly, and grins back.

“Now,” Holster continues, putting on his Serious Business Face. “This means that we can continue making sure SAMwell is the company we want it to be, but it also means that our margin for error is going to be smaller. We’ll have to make careful decisions, and be creative in how we target revenue, since we won’t have the cushion of funding to fall back on.”

“What Holster means is that there’s no guarantee that we’ll make it as a company, if we go this route,” explains Shitty.

“There was no guarantee we’d make it as a company either way, though,” Nursey says matter-of-factly. “That’s just how startups are.”

Shitty points at him. “Derek Nurse, you astute poet of a man, how right you are.” Then his face goes sober, his voice growing quiet. “I know,” he says, “that all of you have been busting your asses to help us get our numbers where we wanted them to be to get the funding. I know we’ve been encouraging each other with the thought that soon we’d be able to hire more people and get some help. I understand that this news might be hard to hear, in light of that.”

His words come as a surprise to Bitty, but thinking about it, he can see how some people - especially the dev team, who’ve been working around the clock - might be disheartened to hear that there’s no end in sight.

Looking around, though, he doesn’t see anyone looking angry. Confused, yes, maybe even a little concerned, but no one looks outraged. _That’s my team_ , he thinks. _We’re in this together._ Lord, he loves them.

“The good news,” Shitty continues, “is that that work is far from being in vain. Downloads are up 50% over this time last year, and since we introduced the new data-sharing options, our Daily Active Users and Monthly Active Users are at an all-time high. So people aren’t just downloading the app, they’re actually using it.”

“Not only that,” Holster says, “but the influencer outreach the Growth team has been doing has resulted in a 30% uptick in team partnerships.” Bitty grins over at Nursey, who extends a fist for him to bump.

 _A 30% uptick in team partnerships, and a 100% increase in sexy makeouts,_ Bitty says to himself, momentarily lost in the memory of how Jack’s hands felt sliding up his stomach the other night. _Eric Bittle, you get ahold of yourself, you are in a meeting._

Shitty smiles beatifically. “All of which means, we are making more than enough money to cover a new hire or two. Ransom is working on the job description for a new developer this week, so hopefully we can get some people in to help out sooner rather than later.

“We’ll also want to make some additions to the Growth team,” he adds, “which brings us to our next announcement! Lardo, could you join us up here?”

Bitty relaxes as Lardo awkwardly joins Shitty and Holster at the front of the room. He already knows about this next part.

“Our beloved Lardo is leaving the sheltered harbor of SAMwell to sail into the open waters of the art world,” Shitty proclaims. “She is a baby bird leaving the nest - “ Lardo makes a face and starts to sit back down, but he loops an arm around her shoulders, “- and we are all very excited to see her stretch her wings out and begin to fly. For it is true what they say -”

“Congratulations, Lardo,” Holster interjects, sticking out a catcher’s-mitt-sized hand for her to shake. She takes it with a grateful look, and Bitty spots her discreetly elbowing Shitty in the ribs as she does so.

“What does this mean for the team, you ask?” Shitty intones, although nobody’s asked anything. “It means that Derek Nurse, Prince of Sales, has been promoted to Business Development Manager, and we’ll be hiring another biz dev person, whom he will then manage.”

“Hey, all right Nursey!” Chowder says, shoving Nursey on the shoulder.

Shitty winks at Bitty. “It also means that Bitty, our social media guru and official meme translator, has been promoted to Online Marketing Manager, and that our stalwart and intrepid Office Manager, Ford, will be reporting to him as our new Marketing Coordinator!”

There’s a smattering of applause. Ford’s face is shining with an excitement and pride that Bitty can feel reflected in his own. At the beginning of this year, he’d had no steady job and no close friends in Providence. Now, he has not just a job but maybe the beginnings of a career, and he spends every day surrounded by his favorite people, people he doesn’t know how he went so long living without. His heart swells; it’s like he can hear music playing.

No, he can absolutely hear music playing. It’s - yes, that’s definitely a flugelhorn. He looks around and realizes that Ransom’s snuck off at some point, no doubt to queue up the Chuck Mangione.

“Now I know it’s only two o’clock,” Shitty says. “But this is a special occasion - multiple special occasions, in fact. Therefore, by the power vested in me by...me, when I founded this company...I officially declare it to be BEER NIGHT!”

~*~

On Sunday night, Jack arrives almost 15 minutes early. He’s pretty pleased with his choice of venue for his and Bitty’s first date; the pub is nice enough to be date-night material, but casual enough to leave them some plausible deniability as “just two bros having dinner.” Plus, it’s within walking distance of Jack’s apartment, a fact which Jack can barely think about without blushing.

When was the last time he even went on a first date? A _real_ first date, with someone he’s interested in? When he first signed with the Falconers, he let Marty set him up on a blind date with one of Gaby’s friends; he felt so stiff and awkward, he probably didn’t say more than ten words to the poor woman the entire evening. This is nothing like that; this is a date with _Bitty_.

He still can’t believe that he gets to go on a date with Bitty tonight, that any minute now Bitty is going to walk in here and sit down across from him, and Jack won’t have to pretend he doesn’t feel what he feels. He can’t believe that he and Bitty spent Wednesday night making out on his couch like a couple of horny teenagers. Even after eating chips and drinking beer all evening, Bitty had tasted so sweet, like all the pastry he consumes had been permanently absorbed into his bloodstream.

Jack has spent the last several days quietly kicking himself for not letting Bitty stay over, but now that the night of their very first official date is here, he’s glad he didn’t. He wants so badly to do this well.

Bitty walks in at seven p.m. on the dot; Jack knows that, in Bitty time, that means he’s arriving at least five minutes early. He looks good, in a soft blue sweater over a white collared shirt, and when he sees Jack, that electric smile lights up his face and stops Jack's thoughts in their tracks for a moment. _This is happening. This is really happening._ He stands up as Bitty approaches.

“Good evening, Mister Zimmermann,” Bitty drawls when he gets to the table.

“Hey,” Jack says. Pulling Bitty into a hug, he takes the opportunity to breathe him in, his hair product and cologne, the scent of Bitty’s skin that he can almost taste. “It’s good to see you.”

“It’s good to see you, too!” Bitty says brightly, as they sit down across from each other.

They sit and stare at each other for a moment. Jack suddenly feels unaccountably awkward; they’ve been meeting up for coffee multiple times a week for months, but this is different. He’s very aware that this is a date, now; the stakes are a lot higher. “So…” he mumbles.

Bitty arches an eyebrow. “So…?”

_You can do this. It’s Bitty. What would you say if you were at Diablo Coffee right now?_

“Euh...how was the rest of your week? I heard about your big promotion, congratulations.”

It was apparently the right thing to say. Bitty visibly relaxes, and starts chattering a mile a minute about work, about the dramatic team meeting on Friday, his plans for the online marketing department, his nervousness around becoming a manager.

“...fortunately, Holster says they’re going to look for a management training to send me to, because I have _no idea_ how to manage someone. Although, Ford probably won’t need a _ton_ of managing, she’s super smart, but still…what?”

Jack realizes he’s been listening to Bitty with an increasingly goofy look on his face. “That’s awesome, Bitty. You’re gonna be an amazing manager.”

“Well, thank you, that’s sweet,” Bitty says, ducking his head modestly.

Jack leans forward a little, lowering his voice, even though, most likely, no one’s listening. “I wish I could kiss you,” he says.

He’s seen Bitty’s smile when he’s excited, when he’s relaxed, when someone compliments his pie, but he’s never seen Bitty smile in the confident, seductive way he does now, and it sends a thrill right through him. “You can,” Bitty says lightly. “Later.”

Fortunately, the server comes by the table just then, and Jack has some time while Bitty’s ordering to get his tongue unstuck from the roof of his mouth.

“You come out to a restaurant just to order a naked chicken breast and steamed veggies? I am going to have to find you some healthy food with actual flavors in it, your diet makes me _so profoundly sad,_ ” Bitty chirps with a teasing grin, after the server departs.

“At least I’m getting some nutrients tonight,” Jack retorts. “Macaroni and cheese is just empty calories, Bitty, you should be getting more -”

“Protein, I know,” Bitty finishes his sentence for him, laughing.

They go back and forth like that, chatting, teasing each other. Once their food arrives, Jack even tries a bite of Bitty’s macaroni, and agrees that it’s delicious, even if it’s devoid of nutritional value.

“I don’t need a bite of yours,” Bitty says disdainfully. “I know what carrots taste like.”

Jack is about to reply when he notices a couple of young guys kind of hovering near their table; one of them has a Falconers cap on. “Incoming,” he murmurs to Bitty as they approach.

“Excuse me,” the guy in the Falconers cap says. “I’m sorry to bother you, but - are you Jack Zimmermann?”

Jack plasters on his Press Conference smile, shakes their hands, autographs their napkins. When they ask if they can take a selfie, Bitty cheerfully offers to take the picture for them.

“Sorry,” Jack says as his fans walk off with their Jack Zimmermann pictures in each of their phones (“I took a few, so y’all can find the one you like best,” Bitty explained cheerily). “Was that weird?”

“Not at all,” Bitty assures him. “I think it’s sweet. People like you!”

“Bitty…” Jack pokes a dot pattern in his discarded napkin with his fork. “This is what it’s going to be like. Dating me. Never being able to kiss, or touch each other, in public. Having random people interrupt us. Having to introduce you as my friend, instead of my date.”

Bitty’s eyes are warm and reassuring. “I know that, Jack. It’s OK. We’ll make it work.”

“I know it seems like no big deal now, but -”

For a moment, he thinks Bitty’s going to reach out and take his hand; he doesn’t, but he does slide Jack’s napkin out from under his fork, so Jack can’t poke at it anymore.

“Sweetheart,” Bitty says quietly. “I like you, OK? I like you so much. This is gonna be a challenge, for both of us - but I want to date you, and if those are the prerequisites, I accept that. So how about this: I’ll promise that if it starts to be something I can’t handle, I’ll tell you, and we’ll talk about it, and in exchange, you’ll promise to trust me when I say I can handle it.”

“Okay,” Jack says, his voice barely higher than a whisper.

“Do we have a deal?” Bitty raises his eyebrows again. “I won’t bake my feelings at you instead of talking to you, and you won’t run out of my house on major national holidays instead of talking to me?”

This time, Jack has to laugh. “Deal.”

They’re only halfway done with their entrees, but Jack feels like he can’t wait another minute to get Bitty alone. “Do you want to get out of here?” he asks, feeling brave.

Bitty’s face floods with relief. “God, yes,” he breathes. Jack signals their server, already pulling his credit card out of his pocket.

They start walking back toward Jack’s apartment, hands in their pockets, letting their elbows bump every so often. “For the record,” Jack says after they’ve gone a few blocks in companionable silence, “I like you, too. I like you so much.”

Bitty laughs up at him, his face alight. “Got it,” he says. “Thanks.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, we did it folks! This concludes our story. I can't believe I managed to post a chapter a week for 10 weeks, this was a monumental undertaking for me.
> 
> I can't say enough times how much I've loved seeing your kudos and comments come through; I've become quite attached to this little AU, and I'm so glad some of you felt the same. Thanks for sticking with me through this.
> 
> A million billion dillion thanks to Laurens, who both a.) assured me this was readable and I should publish it and b.) kept me going with her thoughtful comments and top-notch beta work. This story would not be what it is without her input. Thanks also to the bredfrens for their nonstop encouragement and all-caps Slack DMs.
> 
> I do have an idea for a sequel kicking around, but it probably won't be for a while; I need to take a break from the weekly schedule and get back to some of my other neglected WiPs. If I do post a sequel, I'll add an announcement as a chapter here, so those of y'all who are subscribed will see it.
> 
> If you haven't yet, I do recommend listening to Chuck Mangione's "Feels So Good" to get your happy hour mood kicked off right of a Friday afternoon: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=V7dg8vRDM68
> 
> Come say hi on Tumblr: https://giraffeter.tumblr.com


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